The Hubris of Man
by Alexeij
Summary: Civil war has erupted in the North. Cormac Cousland leads the resistance from the deck of his ship as intrigue and betrayal ravage Ferelden from Denerim to Redcliffe, the prelude to a war thirty years in the making. And yet, all that stands between the Archdemon's hordes and victory is a family of mages, a couple of Wardens, and their unlikely companions.
1. 1) Howe - Cormac I - Bethany I

_**Premise**_ : _So, another pilot. This story plans to be heavily AU, like all the previous iterations, in that there isn't a single point of divergence, rather several differences in the characters' choices, behaviors, and whatnot. My changes are usually justified either through altering a choice made in canon due to game constraints (like not exploring the Cousland-Antivan ties) or personal interpretation and preference (Bethany's situation is an early example) due to new plot elements._

 _Moreover, I played a bit with the cultures of certain bits of the Coastlands on the prompt of Eleanor Cousland being the daughter of a raider, and expanded on it with some loose Norse themes adapted to the pre-existing Alamarri conglomerate culture. If you want to put an image to the description of Cormac and the Storm Raiders, check up the Varangian Guard from the 1200s. What can I say, I love giving some more details to local cultures and breathe life into otherwise anonymous locations, like Waking Sea… which, as far as I'm concerned, is situated on that cluster of islands that kind of create a bottleneck in the Waking sea, just north of Lake Calenhad._

 _Other than that, I'll try and follow the dreaded GRRM approach to narration, which means each scene is filtered through a single character close 3rd person POV, and there'll be quite the cast. Also, minor time skips, all accounted for in the narration. If you've read one of the many previous attempts at The Hubris of Man, I'll lift themes and stuff from there too, though the story will be wider in scope and breadth._

 **PROLOGUE**

A log popped in the hearth and a brief gout of flame licked at the ancient, blackened stone. Arl Rendon Howe stared at the flickering flames, leaning forward on his high-backed seat. His hawkish features were pinched in a look of brooding distaste that rarely left his face anymore these days.

Every stone around him was old. Older than Ferelden. Older than Calenhad's line. Vigil's Keep even predated the Chantry and her Ages, built by the hands of the Alamarri of old. From a time long lost in legend and myth, the fortress stood, and the Howes controlled it and its lands.

' _My lineage predates the blood of the dragon by Ages, and yet, what have I to show for it?'_

This was his family's legacy after a thousand years. A crumbling castle, the ancient stone worn and consumed by the same time that heaped prestige upon it. A dwindling Arling, still reeling from the Occupation and squeezed between the lofty holdings of Highever, Denerim and the ravaging weather of the Storm Coast. Unappreciative Banns held in line by vows of blood and allegiance, their loyalties wavering as their freeholders trickled away by the year to swear to the Couslands. And Amaranthine, the shining jewel of his crown, just one bold, ambitious Bann away from being wrenched from his grasp.

Bann Esmerelle descended from a long line of Howe loyalists, and the woman's great designs had restored the city to the splendor of before the Occupation... but her ambition was ultimately self-serving. That kind of people, together with the spineless and the cowards, had been the first to bend the knee to the Orlesians.

Rendon's lips pinched into a bloodless grimace.

Out of the three who braved the currents of the White River that fateful day, who survived the Orlesian onslaught and repaid them in kind ten times so, the Maker had decided to turn His gaze away from him only.

To Eleanor Cousland's spirit and charm, or Bronwyn Bryland's beauty and insight, Howe had been cursed with sickly, hateful wife that begot him children unworthy of the Howe name.

Tomas, weak of chin and will, fostered over to the Couslands in a myopic decision that ruined the boy's character by the time he was back under the Howe's aegis. He may have grown a capable warrior in his time yapping after Cormac Cousland and the Storm Raiders, but they had also made him soft.

Sweet, demure Delilah, pale and frail like porcelain. A shy and hesitant girl, a wallflower in ribbons and gowns. Lovely like her mother never was, but not assertive enough to bewitch the young King or distract Vaughan Kendalls from elf flesh. In her only duty, to tie another strong family to the Howes' fortunes, she failed even before she ever stood a chance.

And then there was Nathaniel. His firstborn, the apple of his eye. Strong and smart, with the looks of a true Howe to him. He'd shunned his other children to mold Nathaniel in the future the Howes deserved, but for all of the boy's skill and charm, he had been the greatest of disappointments. When his sight had grown unbearable, Rendon had had no choice but to send him away, in the Free Marches.

And while he, Rendon Howe, rotted, his many sacrifices gone unrewarded, his family a line of failures, Leonas's Arling was bursting, blessed with rich harvests and riches from the trade growing around the Imperial Highway. Habren was a little, spoiled wretch, true, but Bronwyn had given Leonas sired two younger sons as well before passing.

And Bryce... Bryce had had it all, once Meghren's head was put on a pike atop Fort Drakon. Eleanor for a wife, the natural, easy charisma and sweet words to pacify the eastern Jarls with the knightly Banns of the south and west. Then honors, praise, and riches, all piled upon him for his diplomatic successes, as well as brought to him by his sons' deeds in sword and word. To top it all off, not five years before, he had Ferelden and the Crown offered to him on a silver platter by those too blinded and swayed by the Cousland laurels to see the bloodied thorns digging into the palms handing them out. Cailan's election had been a close thing, and even the Guerrin-Mac Tir alliance of convenience would have had a hard time triumphing, hadn't Bryce stepped back.

All for the good of Ferelden, he said.

A fire hotter than the hearth's erupted into his chest, fueling on decades of repressed frustration and hate barely kept in check by bonds of friendship and promises for the future. The thick parchment in his hand cracked as his fingers curled into a fist around it. Howe restrained himself from throwing it into the fire and flattened it instead, glaring at the elegant and fluent handwriting revealing the utmost betrayal, paid in Orleasian coin and the blood of loyal Fereldans.

A smart rapping on the thick, wooden door broke the quiet of the night. It also brought Howe's eyes and displeasure to bear on a new target.

"M'lord," the muffled but deep voice of Captain Lowan announced. "You have a visitor, m'lord. The lady m'lord was expecting is here." Howe frowned in annoyance as his commoner accent grated on his nerves.

"Send her in."

"As you wish, m'lord."

The door cracked open on heavy hinges, revealing the torch-lit corridor beyond and the boorish silhouette of Lowan standing against it. The strong-jawed man stepped into the Arl's study, then to the side, eyes fixed and back stiff. He crossed his arms across his chest, fists touching his shoulders, and bowed smartly.

Howe barely noticed. Behind Lowan, a beautiful woman walked in. The rosiness of youth had long left her, leaving a sharp-lined face framing eloquent eyes and high cheekbones unspoiled of any powder or embellishment. She wore the gown proper of a Fereldan noblewoman, elegant and embroidered but demure and practical, of thick cloth made to withstand harsh weather and long travels rather than show off skin and allure like those Orlesians constructs of silk.

She bowed to him, hers inches shallower than Lowan's. The name announced by the Captain, however, spoiled the rather agreeable image the woman presented, bringing a tight grimace to Howe's face.

"The Lady Marjolaine, m'lord Howe."

' _Bloody Orlesians.'_

"Leave us."

"Aye, m'lord."

The Captain bowed again and the door creaked shut after him. Howe studied the Lady Marjolaine for long moments. To his growing annoyance, her long glance at the trophies gathered by generations of Howes and proudly on display, as well as the long tapestries draping the walls and depicting deeds of sword and blood, left a rather unimpressed, if polite, expression on her face. Her stance as she stood the proper distance away was straight and poised but relaxed despite her lack of weapons and the burning look he regarded her with.

A word from him and the guards outside the door would make short work of her. They both knew that, but the Lady Marjolaine seemed to refuse to care.

A long time after etiquette would have had him offer her a seat as well as bread and salt, Howe nodded at one of the stuffed chairs. The Lady sat with elegant slowness.

A few moments later and she broke the silence. "It's an honor to finally meet you in person, my lord Arl." Her voice reminded him of songbirds chirping after a storm.

"A meeting long delayed," Howe said.

Marjolaine tilted her head, her expression contrite. It was so good, he almost believed her. "My apologies, my lord. I had to bide my time to gather the incriminating evidence and then leave without raising suspicion. If I had been less careful, the Empress' Shadows would have caught me long ago, and Teyrn Cousland's betrayal would remain concealed under a friendly facade until it was too late."

She hesitated. "As it is, I'm not certain I have remained undetected. The Empress' agents are hard at work, weaving their webs in Ferelden. I'm afraid the time to act is drawing short, and this Blight is the perfect occasion for Orlais to complete what you sacrificed so much to foul."

Howe's eyes narrowed, ears ringing with suspicion and old anger at the flattery.

"Bold words from someone so thoroughly Orlesian. In this letter, you admitted you were involved with Cousland's transactions with the bitch Celene from the start. Why should I trust a turn-cloak who is so proficient in the Game, she can weasel information straight out of the Imperial Palace?"

If the Orlesian Bard was offended, she didn't show it. "It would be foolish of you to trust me on my word, my Lord Arl. That's why I brought tangible proof, penned by the culprit parties and reliable beyond any doubt," she said, smoothing a crease in the gown. "As you said, I'm a Bard. I've played the game for almost three decades at this point. I've killed, deceived, and seduced my way to secrets nobody should know." Her brown, expressive eyes found his. There was no allure or coyness there, only stony determination. "But in all these years, I never betrayed my homeland. I've always, _always_ served Ferelden, at times and in ways nobody will ever know."

Howe blinked, then recovered his composure, hiding his moment of surprise behind a harsh snap. "Speak clearly, woman!"

"I'm Fereldan by birth, my Lord." Her voice tensed, but her eyes didn't waver from his. "My mother was raped by a Chevalier during the sacking of West Hills, then taken as a servant in his household when he returned home. The local Chantry's registers of the time will have her name and mine penned down. I may have grown and developed my craft under the spires of Val Royeaux, and my voice may lilt with their accent, but my blood, and my heart, belong to this country. And you, my Lord, are not the first Fereldan I've served and risked my life for to protect my home."

Howe filed away the information behind a mask of cool consideration. He almost spat the next syllable, his heart conflicted between believing her words and bisecting her from shoulder to hip with his ax.

"Who?"

Marjolaine hung her head, her posture drooping as old grief colored her words. "Her Grace, the Queen Rowan, may the Maker keep her soul from the Void. I was too late to stop the Emperor' agents from murdering her at the time, but rest assured none who participated in the deed live any longer." A vicious smile shattered the previous impression Howe had gotten of her, even as outrage swelled his chest and made veins bulge on his neck and temples. "Their end wasn't swift."

Howe exhaled violently, rabid anger twisting his gut at the confirmation of an old, festering suspicion. If what she said was true... Orlais had murdered the Red Queen in spite and vengeance, all those years ago. Deprived the realm of her guidance when it was needed most. And now, history was about to repeat itself, with Cousland and Cailan and...

 _No._

He wouldn't allow it. On his honor and blood as a Howe, he would be dead before Ferelden was subjugated again to those duplicitous, incestuous, mask-wearing boot-lickers.

"Show me the proof, Bard."

Marjolaine smiled. From the folds of her Fereldan dress, she produced a thin bundle of parchments and letters, tied with string. The broken wax of the Cousland Laurels and the Empire's Sun was all over them, like flies on a corpse.

The next morning, the Lady Marjolaine was long gone when the King's messenger rode into Vigil's Keep. Senechal Varel, carrying the missive personally as the rider rested and ate, found his Arl standing on the highest tower of the Vigil, eyes lost on the Arling's countryside and the black clouds rolling from the Waking Sea.

The Captains Lowan and Chase stood with him and fell silent when Varel approached, though not out of respect for the man. Lowan and Chase were commoners, their fortunes and ranks bound to Howe until their deaths. Varel's family, on the other hand, was petty nobility, minor Banns from the northern expanses of the Bannorn. His views and stiff morality badly aligned with Howe's more pragmatic inclinations. As such, despite his position of authority over the keep and his competence, Howe rarely allowed Varel in his council.

It was why the Senechal knew nothing of the Lady Marjolaine, and why he hadn't been summoned on the tower top at dawn.

Howe broke the Royal Sigil and quickly read the missive, before dismissing the Senechal with the order to summon the Banns and start rallying the levies. King Cailan was raising the banners to vanquish the Darkspawn south. The missive presented it as a noble endeavor of patriotism, worthy of song and legend.

Howe considered it a vain deed for a vain boy who would serve his country much better if he put a child in his wife, rather than whore around and sell Ferelden to the Orleasians. Ultimately, however, the King wasn't Howe's problem to deal with. Not yet.

"Lowan, pick a few trusted men and ride for Denerim. Bring these to Teyrn Loghain, and to his hands only. He will know what to do." _'And if he won't, then I will.'_

"Chase. You will have gold and a small escort. Ride to Amaranthine, to Harper's Ford and the Wending Woods, to every scum's lair and hideout you know of. Hire any apostate, mercenary, and thug you can find, and send them to the Knotwood Hills. You have two weeks." Howe fixed the peasant-born Captain with a cold look. The Captain didn't flinch, only crossed his arms across his chest, and bowed deeply.

He was younger than Lowan, fairer of face and tongue, with curly blond hair and piercing blue eyes giving away his traces of Marcher blood. Yet that fairness didn't hide the shrewd, calculating look Howe had come to expect from the man. After all, it was those qualities that had endeared the man to the Arl years before, when he was still a lowly, well-connected spy with dreams of greatness and the ambition to back them up.

"Do not disappoint me, and you will be rewarded well beyond your dreams." Howe smirked cruelly as Chase's coolness faltered with hope, doubt, and suspicion. All men had a weakness to exploit, after all. Chase's, surprisingly, was Delilah. How such a man, a cutthroat and cold-blooded assassin, could harbor feelings for a frail thing like his daughter, Howe didn't know, but that kind of knowledge had kept Chase in check and obedient for years.

It would continue to do so as long as Howe had need for him. There was no chance he'd dilute a Howe's blood with a commoner, but Chase needn't know.

"As you command, milord."

"Two weeks, Chase. Not a day more." _'And soon, the traitors will finally earn their due. As will I.'_

 **CORMAC**

The drums picked up in intensity, beating loud and fast over the crash of the waves against the bulwarks of the _Werewolf_ , drowning the twangs of bolts and the whizz of raining arrows, but not the bedlam of wood crashing and men dying.

Cormac stood near the prow of the war galley, surrounded by Storm Raiders and Highever men in equal numbers, shield raised high with theirs to form a nigh-impenetrable barrier against the enemy ranged fire. Wind and rain battered his armored body. Cold water seeped through metal and drakeskin, chilling his flesh. Each lurch of the ship threatened to unbalance him on the drenched deck and throw him overboard to a death by drowning. Said deck shook every time the two banks of oars attacked the belligerent see: nature and the Maker challenged the bodies and resolve of the Werewolf's crew and of every other ship locked in battle against the pirates and the weather both.

Never like in these moments, with death and uncertainty encroaching him by all sides and his men rallied around him, did Cormac feel more alive.

The Thane brought an armored wrist to where the veridium mail aventail covered his mouth and kissed the small bracelet carrying the effigy of the Prophetess, safely tucked underneath his vambrace. All around him, dozens of voices joined in mismatched prayers, hands tightened on the hilts of swords and axes, eager to spill the blood of the Felicisima Armada.

Cormac barely heard his own prayer over the din of thunder, rain, and arrows thudding on the large round shield held angled above his head. The words resonated inside him nonetheless

"Maker, through the darkness comes upon me,

I shall embrace the Light. I shall weather the storm.

I shall endure.

What you have created, no one can tear asunder."

The archers and crossbowmen on the _Werewolf's_ castle loosed another volley. Through a gap in the shield wall, Cormac saw the pirate ship's port side grow ever closer, their rows caught in the middle of frantic maneuvering. The Armada's flag billowed from atop the main mast, an affront Cormac looked forward to rectifying.

"Ramming speed!" Cormac shouted, making himself heard over the drums now beating a frenzied tempo. "Brace for impact!"

The deck lurched under his feet as the _Werewolf's_ ram broke the pirate ship's oars like twigs, then carved hungrily into its hull. The shield wall wavered and gaps opened, but the pirates were too busy being thrown head over heels and screaming as they fell overboard to exploit the gap.

And yet, the waves dulled the _Werewolf's_ ramming, derailing the angle of impact and lessening the force of the blow. Or maybe the pirate ship was a rare example of Estwatch's capable craftsmanship. The fact was, the ramming hadn't broken the keel, nor damaged the hull enough to cause sinking.

Cormac's heart leaped with joy and anticipation.

"Highever! Highever!"

His war cry echoed by two dozen throats, Cormac vaulted over the parapet, silverite sword swinging downward. The tip of the blade caught a staggering pirate in the back. It tore through the cheap scale mail and the leather underneath like butter, Cormac's weight pushing it deeper and downward. It opened the pirate from shoulder to hip, bisecting his spine in the process.

Cormac hit the deck and rolled, the damaged wood screaming under his armored weight. He came up swinging, deflecting an ax meant to split his metal helmet. The boss of his shield hit the pirate in the jaw in riposte, shattering it and sending him reeling. Before he could skewer him, however, another battle cry rallied the pirates.

"Push the Dog Lovers into the sea!"

The ship's captain stood on the low castle, waving and pointing a cutlass unflinchingly as his men exchanged fire with Cormac's on the _Werewolf's_ castle. Cormac could concede on his bravery and the effect it had on the crew, but it was too little, too late.

More thumps and creaks of straining wood were drowned as the Storm Raiders swarmed over the _Werewolf's_ stuck prow and onto the enemy deck. Clad in full mail and lamellar cuirasses like Cormac's – though not of the same quality -, their faces concealed behind aventails to leave only the eyes bare, the Storm Raiders ought to appear like demons out of the stormy sea to the lightly armored pirates.

They certainly killed like demons.

The pirates staggered counter-offensive crashed into a wall of large, round shields, then shattered as the Raiders pushed back, stabbing and slicing with every step, creating more space for the Highever soldiers to safely board. Cormac stabbed over his shield and his blade plunged into a chest, the cry of pain lost to the cacophony of battle. He bashed the body away, kicking it underfoot, and the Raider beside him deflected a blow meant for his neck, opening the bold pirate for a stab in the belly that left her bleeding on the deck, her blood mixing with rainwater.

"Be careful!" Alfstanna shouted into his ear as the shield wall broke to pursue the enemy. Cormac strode for the castle, bringing his shield up and frowning as a bodkin arrow almost punched through the layers of whitewood and silverite.

"Why, when I have you as my huscarl, 'Sanna?"

He fancied she rolled her eyes at him under her aventail, always one step behind him. Then he reached the steps to the castle, and the battle raged again.

Minutes later, Cormac stood on the tilting ship's castle, ankle deep in the viscera, shit and blood of the dead pirate crew archers. Guardsman Kellogg, a sour-faced soldier from the Highever garrison, had killed the pirate captain before he could get to him. Cormac didn't begrudge him the accomplishment: the day had been ripe with battle already, and it was yet to be over.

The combat between the Felicisima Armada and the allied forces of Highever and Rialto still raged. Galleys, cogs, and dromons were burning brightly and sinking, bodies and flags swallowed greedily by the waves. Cormac saw the _Alacrità_ , an Antivan galley, boxed in between a cog and a dromon, both flying the Armada's banner.

Then the _Rosso Cremisi_ , the Antivan flagship, swept in. The ship sent a salvo of incendiary ballista bolts into the cog, then rowed around the three clustered ships and proceeded to shatter the oars of the Llomerryn dromon. The _Alacrità's_ crew, their vigor renewed, cut loose the cog's boarding grapples as the ship started to founder and tilt dangerously. Moments later, the _Rosso Cremisi_ threw its own barrage of grapples on the dromon and the Antivan crew boarded the pirate ship, the crossbowmen and archers on its castle keeping up the fire all along.

Elsewhere and all around Cormac, the laurels of the Couslands, the tear-and-spears of Highever and the red-wheel-on-waves of the Eremon of Waking Sea, even if bereft of the _Rosso Cremisi's_ artillery, laid waste to the pirate fleet by skill and the strength of arms of their crews. The mixed contingents of heavily armed and armored Storm Raiders, Waking Sea reavers and Fereldan soldiers tore into the pirates, turning predators into prey.

"My Lord Cousland!" One of the Raiders shouted at him from the deck below. "Jarl Eremon's ship signals to push deeper into the fray and cut off the Armada's flagship! The scum is trying to flee!"

Under the aventail, the sweat and the blood soaked through the rings, Cormac smiled.

"Now, we can't have that." Louder, so as to be heard over the crash of wood and steel, Cormac shouted. "Kopral Garrick, your squad man this ship! It'll make a fine addition to the Highever Fleet! Everyone else, on the _Werewolf_! Kill them until your thirst is sated! Strike fear into their hearts and send them screaming into the Void!"

* * *

A day and a night after the battle that routed the pirates of the Felicisima Armada, the conjoined Antivan-Fereldan fleet gave up on the chase and dropped anchor in one of the many inlets of Brandel's Reach for repairs and sharing the loot. The haggard remnants of the pirate fleet that plagued that stretch of the sea were left to limp back to Estwatch or Llomerryn and spread word of their defeat, if they didn't founder in another storm.

The leaders of the two fleets met on board of the _Sword of Mercy_ , Jarl Elderath Eremon's flagship, to divide the spoils and decide on future endeavors. The Fereldan fleet had lost two ships out of the starting nine, but captured four in return. The Antivan met with similar results, though the boarding actions had cut into their crews more significantly. Indeed, there was much to talk about and decide. Tug the prizes home and recover, or push North for richer prizes?

The moment Cormac's head of brown curls climbed over the parapet, however, such concerns were forgotten as the younger Cousland found himself crushed by the bear paws of Jarl Elderath.

"Ha! Thane Cousland! Or is it Kaptain? Lord, perhaps? My lad, you have too many titles! Be as it may, you grace my ship with your presence!" Cormac was a tall and broad man, but Elderath topped him easily by half a head while helmetless. Said head was bald and crisscrossed with angular blue marks, save for a gray tress protruding from his nape. Similar tattoos covered his arms as well, partially hidden by bangles of gold and bronze. It was an old Alamarri tradition predating the Chantry and Ferelden, but still preserved by the people of Waking Sea, as was the title of their ruler, or Elderath's own name, rooted deeply in the history of the Prophetess.

Where the rest of Ferelden, save for the Chasind and Avvars, had Banns, Waking Sea Hold and the other isles on the homonymous sea had their Jarls. Where knights swore their oaths to the Maker and earned or bought their titles elsewhere, the title of Thane was the greatest honor and responsibility on the isles, bestowed by the Jarl for services rendered to the Hold. And where the Chantry monopolized religiosity, on the isles only the Prophetess Andraste's words had value over a man's soul.

As the Alamarri tradition had it, the most prominent mark on Elderath was indeed the same as Havard the Aegis', Andraste's first follower. It was a frayed V pointing at the crown of his head, whose arms then descended over his eyes and a single bushy eyebrow to end on the Jarl's cheeks with tears and streaks tapering off. An old burn scar disfigured the top left of the Jarl's face, where the eyebrow had never grown back, causing the skin there to resemble drakeskin leather more than flesh.

Cormac had spent long days looking at that mangled face during his fostering years, until he had just grown used to it. That wasn't the case for most of the Landsmeet nobles during the yearly gathering, however. Their discomfort never failed to bring a hearty laugh to Elderath's lips.

He was laughing now as well as Cormac extricated himself from his hold and clasped his forearm instead.

"Har fucking har," Cormac groused, but under his week's growth, he grinned. Elderath's laugh had always been contagious. "Many spoils in the last battle?"

"Ha! Certainly more than your milk drinkers, or those bare-faced Antivans! Today will be less about splitting, and more about Waking Sea gifting you lot!"

"I seem to recall it was the _Werewolf_ and the _Rosso Cremisi_ that actually captured the Armada's flagship, while the _Sword of Mercy_ was held back like a blushing virgin by the small fish."

Elderath's grip on his forearm became steel. Cormac's grin only widened as he tightened his, ignoring the pressure of his mail digging into the drakeskin aketon covering his forearm.

"Your grip would shame a blushing virgin, Cormac! That way lies a grave at the bottom of the Sea!"

"If the two of you are done comparing your cocks, isn't there a meeting you have to attend?"

Alfstanna looked on the scene with her arms crossed over her cuirass, the red steel still speckled with the dried and crumbling blood of her kills. To the clotted dark red of the blood and the dull, metallic one of her lamellar cuirass, her hair was warmer, tied in a practical bun behind her head. Only a single braid hung free against her cheek, signifying her status as a Battle-Maiden. The laurels on her shield, painted opposite of the wheel-and-waves of Waking Sea, signified her personal allegiance to the Couslands and to Cormac himself, as his personal huscarl.

Fully armed and armored in the garments of the Storm Raiders, save for the metal helmet and gloves hanging from her belt, she cut an intimidating figure, even to the taller Cormac. Intimidating, and annoyed.

The pressure on his forearm relented. In two long strides, Jarl Elderath towered over the redhead huscarl, all cheer evaporated. His glower pulled at the burned flesh of his face, adding to his intimidating visage. A hushed silence fell over the deck crew and the warriors in attendance.

"Is this the manner to speak to your Thane, huscarl?!"

Alfstanna blinked and suddenly paled, then crossed arms over her chest and fell on one knee, head hung, eyes fixed on the planks of the deck.

"Apologies, Jarl Eremon. It was out of place of me." She looked at Cormac then, a focused and contrite look about her. "And my deepest apologies to you, my Thane." She unsheathed a dagger engraved with Alamarri runes from her belt, and brought the blade to her bare palm, slicing twice. A glob of blood hit the deck, then another. At the third, she spoke again, voice unwavering.

"Please forgive my offense. Whatever task you require of me to repent, I shall complete, or die trying."

Cormac remained silent throughout the declaration. It was necessary that he did as much, to preserve both of their honors: his, as the Thane who was publicly disrespected by his huscarl and hers, as the offending party. It didn't matter how familiar they were with each other outside of the public eye, or that they'd grown up together, or even that Jarl Elderath was Alfstanna's own father. If a huscarl, an extension of the Thane's will, bound to him by blood and oath, disrespected her Thane, then how could anyone else respect him?

' _It was our banter. It brought her back to my fostering at Waking Sea, and the weariness from the battle made her slip. Maker.'_ He knew he had to punish her, in some manner at least. For both of their good.

"Rise, Alfstanna." She did as he commanded. Cormac didn't dare sigh or take a steadying breath. "You shall not take any share in the spoils of the Armada but what is already on your person. Understood?"

Alfstanna bowed, fists to her shoulders, but not before Cormac saw the flash of gratitude in them. "You are too kind, my Thane. I will not bring you dishonor in the future."

"See that you do, huscarl," Elderath boomed. "And she's right, Cormac. You're too kind. There are bloodstains to be cleaned on every ship after the battle. A task like that ought to teach her some respect."

Cormac's head whipped around to glare at Elderath. "She's my huscarl, Jarl Eremon. Her punishment is mine to dole out. Or are you questioning my decision?"

The more important question, the one whose answer would skirt dangerously close to betrayal, hung in the air.

 _'Do you question my authority over my own?'_

The crew had probably forgotten how to breathe. A bad omen at the vigil of a talk with an important ally. So would any dissent between the two nobles who would sit at the table representing Ferelden be toxic.

Jarl Elderath frowned for a moment, then the lined panes of his face smoothed over, he threw his head back and barked a full-belly laugh.

"Ha! I see your spine hasn't sunk to the bottom of the Sea, Kaptain." He clapped Cormac on the shoulder, making the younger man suppress a wince. "Very well. Long be from me to challenge a Cousland. Even if you're all limp-wristed ground lovers, I'd like avoid another tongue lashing by Teyrna Eleanor." He shook his head, Cormac and his own daughter bleeding on the deck forgotten. "It seems only yesterday she ran on this very ship, pigtails in the wind and bow in hand."

The situation defused, Cormac gestured at Alfstanna to take care of her wound and guard the door to the Jarl's quarters, then he followed the half-giant of a Jarl inside to meet with Oriana's uncle, the Antivan Admiral Gustavo Biasìn.

 **BETHANY**

The fourth anniversary of her arrival to the Circle of Magi found Bethany Hawke praying fervently in the Tower's chapel.

Four years. Four years since Father and Damien died. Four years since the templar hunters kicked down the door of her family's dwelling in Lothering, their swords still dripping with the blood of her father and eldest brother. Four years since they carried her away into the night, leaving her mother sobbing and her Carver beaten, but alive.

Bethany felt shame and guilt every day to consider even a single day of those four years within the Circle a good day. There couldn't be a good day in a prison. The shouldn't be. Her life should have been filled only with misery and regret inside the cage that was Kinloch Hold.

And yet, that hadn't been the case. As the months wove into years, there had been good days. There had even been great days, sparse and far in between, like when she discovered she had a family, a Kirkwaller cousin of all people, in her fellow apprentice Theresa Amell.

With time, her mother's wails had grown fainter in her dreams. The life in Lothering, the days spent practicing her magic hidden in the Wilds and afraid to even step into the town proper because the templars just might feel there was something wrong with the Hawke family… sometimes, those days had seemed like a dream.

Life in the Circle was never easy, nor altogether pleasant. The concept of privacy was beaten out of her by the unashamed eyes of templars watching the apprentices eat, sleep, bathe and even take a shit. There was no laxness, no respite from the surveillance, save what could be found in dark angles and alcoves at times. The most common form of communication between the two sides, the only form that crossed the two-ways barrier of suspicion, discipline, and threats of Smiting erected by generations between templars and mages, were stares and flat commands. Compassion and any chance at friendship were hammered out of the equation by training and reciprocal fear too engraved to be even questioned.

And so every day, at every moment, the bucket-heads watched for signs of Blood Magic and demonic possession, and mages like Bethany hung their heads and kept going.

Most of the clergy was hardly any better than the faceless, silent guardians. Bethany knew of resentment. Her twin Carver had been an early manifest example of the virtue. The older Mothers spewed it in buckets, always droning on about the sin of magic, beating mages and apprentices alike over the head with the same few verses of the Chant of Light, exacting repentance.

And yet, despite the berating and all the mortification of what she was because she was it, the Circle was also a place of study, and learning. As an apprentice, Bethany had learned more about magic than in her whole life under her father's spotty tutoring. For Malcolm Hawke, control had been tantamount, but a farmer's life left little time to spare to teach much of anything else.

Under the Senior Enchanters' tutoring, Bethany magical talents blossomed. Senior Enchanter Wynne, the most affirmed Healer in decades, had taken her under her wing after Bethany's talent in that School became evident. Even to an apprentice like her, the library offered boundless treasures of knowledge, tomes of botany and alchemy, glyphs and, eventually, runes.

She remembered Senior Enchanter Torrin's surprise when she managed a rune of frost on the second try in his class. That had been two weeks before.

It was the beginning of the end. An end worse than death. When she'd told Wynne, the older woman's reaction had been one of sadness and worn acceptance.

Too late she had remembered her father's warning.

" _If you're ever taken to the Circle, remember this. No matter what happens, or what you're offered: never show the templars you can craft anything. They'll stamp your forehead and make you Tranquil before you can feel the lyrium brand on your forehead. You'll be just another cash cow for the Chantry."_

Bethany had been ten when her father said that. She remembered she had been afraid and confused.

Kneeling on the pews of the Chantry now, her hands joined in silent prayer as the young acolytes recited the Canticles of Apotheosis in the evening rites, she was terrified. The verses were both beautiful to hear and terrible to the mind. Bethany couldn't stop her shoulders from shaking, nor the fresh tears trailing down her cheeks. Her stomach twisted into knots, tighter and tighter, pushing bile to burn her gullet.

It had been days since she last ate properly, or caught more than a few hours of fitful sleep. At any moment, she expected the templars to take her to the Tranquil's quarters and press the lyrium stamp on her forehead. She'd seen Owain and the others work in the storerooms, sweep the floors and do all the other little things and chore that kept the Circle spotless clean and running.

She'd heard from scuttlebutt what happened behind closed doors to young, pretty women who were made Tranquil.

They were golems, not people. Slaves, their free will burned off their mind in everything but theory. Unable to feel, ruled by the most passionless of logic that the Chantry harnessed long ago like a tool against them. Peaceful, sedate sleepwalkers. Cash cows.

Bethany felt the flat of the kitchen knife pressed between her clasped palms all the more keenly, and whimpered.

' _Only one more day,'_ she told herself. Even her thoughts reeked of desperation. _'I can be still called from my Harrowing. I'm a good healer. They need me. I can heal nobles and the rich once I'm Harrowed. Yes. No. Oh Maker, please.'_

She tried to summon another prayer, anything, but all that came to her was Owain's blank face and placid, admittedly fake smile. The sunburst mark burned on his forehead beckoned her, growing larger and refulgent, until Bethany had to open her eyes to dispel the nightmarish image.

The pew creaked under a weight that wasn't hers and Bethany felt a shoulder brush against hers. She flinched, fearing the cold touch of steel and armor, but only felt rough cloth and the hint of human warmth beneath.

"Easy, cousin. It's me."

Theresa knelt beside her, her head hanging low in fake prayer. To Bethany's dark, wavy hair, the same as her father's, Theresa's distant Anderfellian's blood was made evident by her sandy blonde bob cut and light green eyes. She was shorter than Bethany maybe by an inch, yet still willowy to Bethany's fuller figure, not that the heavy cloth of the mage garb showed much of that in any case. To many, that was a silent boon from the probing eyes of the templars.

"Theresa?!"

"Shh, keep it low, bumpkin," she hissed, then cast a furtive glance around. The sisters were still praying underneath the statue of Archon Hessarian, lighting a candle for every stanza of the Canticle. "Don't look at me, mouth some prayer or something. There isn't much time."

Bethany blinked away the tears. She didn't dare wipe her eyes, for fear of showing the knife to her cousin. Theresa was fervently attached to life, despite all hardships. She knew she wouldn't approve.

"Do you want to live?"

The metal of the knife was cold against her palms. Bethany sniffled, but nodded.

"Then listen and for the love of the Maker, don't jump or cry. I was in the First Enchanter's office, earlier. He's buckled to Knight-Commander Greagoir. I saw the papers on his desk: they're coming for you. Tonight."

All blood drained from Bethany's face. Her shoulders stopped shaking as a dull pain spread in her chest. It spread and grew and climbed up her throat, until a sob wracked her body.

"Nonono. Shh. I'm a moron. I'm a dunderhead. Don't cry, Beth. Please." Theresa's voice was equal parts pleading and commanding as Bethany's head sunk between her conjoined arms. Hot tears dripped on the pew, burning her eyes.

' _It's over. Mom, Dad, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I should have fought, I should have –'_

"Listen to me!" Theresa hissed. "Fuck's sake, Beth. I have a solution. There's a Grey Warden in the Tower."

It took a few moments for the words to register, and almost a minute before Bethany was in any condition to whisper. Theresa's foot was pattering insistently on the back of the pew, but she said nothing.

"A… Warden?" she asked weakly, sniffling.

"Yes, walked in this morning, straight out of a fairy tale, sadly sans the griffin. The Warden Commander of Ferelden, no less. More importantly, he's recruiting. As many mages as he can. He had this massive bitchfight with Greagoir in Irving's study over who and what and how many. That's when I saw the letter with your name on."

Bethany felt woozy, sick, and elated at the same time. "You… want me to become a Warden?"

"I want you to live, Beth. Like, live _live_. You should want it too. 'Sides, I'm thinking Duncan is gonna pick me anyway, and that's a chance out of here that only comes once in a lifetime. Irving was bigging me up the whole time during the meeting, saying what an amazing Harrowing I performed and all that." Bethany was confused for a moment, then she felt shame color her cheeks hotly, despite everything.

So caught up in her own plight, she'd forgotten entirely about Theresa's Harrowing. Father had never hidden from them how the templars pitted the apprentices against Demons. His words that night when she was ten still haunted her nightmares at times, weaponized as taunts by the Demons whispering across the Fade.

" _The entity that inhabits that portion of the Fade and governs the trial… I've never seen or felt anything like them, before or since. The First Enchanter of the time called them The Formless One. The greatest of the Forbidden Ones. And probably the smartest of the lot: every Circle in Thedas has been willingly feeding them souls for Ages."_

A familiar shudder ran down her spine. Theresa waved her off with a small shrug, wrenching Bethany back to the space outside her mind. "Don't sweat it. You had much more on your plate."

"Will they – the Knight-Commander and First Enchanter Irving – will they even allow me to join the Wardens? I never took my Harrowing." 'And they've already decided my fate.' "Will the Warden even want someone like me?"

Theresa actually scoffed, then stole a glance around and fingered a fold of her robes. "That's bullshit, and you know it. You're the best healer in the Tower, bar none – no, Escape Artist Anders and Senior Enchanter Stuffy don't count in my book. Anders thinks only with his dick, and Wynne is way too old. And you can fireball shit like the best of them when you get your heart into it. Magic has been in our family for generations, and your dad only poured in some more. The only reason you haven't taken the Harrowing yet is 'cause you were brought in so late, and 'cause the children love you." Despite herself, the corners of Bethany's lips tugged upward, before falling again.

"'Sides, we're not going to ask, or give them a choice in the matter." Her hand disappeared for a moment, then produced a thin, long wand inscribed with glowing lyrium runes.

"Rod of Fire," she announced with a grin. "Senior Enchanter Leorah owed me one. Tonight, we're gonna break into the Sanctum, cause a bit of mayhem and flex our magical muscles. Maybe shatter a few phylacteries, who knows. If I've got the Warden Commander right, he'll jump to the occasion of Conscripting the two of us when the templars capture us. We'll just have to make sure he's around."

Bethany blanched, ice gripping her heart at Theresa's dead serious tone. She stared. Theresa tilted her head to the Sisters.

Bethany stared.

"Are you sure it's you, and not some Demon? That's… that's crazy, Theresa. Even for you. You plan to get us captured? They'll just kill us on the spot, o-or brand you too and make us both Tranquil." Bethany swallowed, then nodded at Theresa's embroidered robes. "You're an Enchanter now, Thes. Why throw everything away?"

Theresa didn't answer immediately. A long minute passed. The gaggle of Sisters moved from Archon Hessarian's statue to Andraste's own, wax candles held high, shifting seamlessly from one Canticle to the other. As Andraste's despair at the lack of answer from the Alamarri gods echoed against the stones, Theresa spoke, her words slow and weighed, the familiar undertone of flippancy absent.

"How could I live with myself, knowing that I let you become one of those… things? With you here, to remind me every day of what they did to you? What I let them do to you? What I could have done to stop it?"

Bethany drew a sharp breath as Theresa's hand found hers, and squeezed tenderly. "You're all the family I have, Beth. And family sticks together, through good and bad and the Void itself. I'll tear this place down stone by stone and murder the Maker-damned Divine, before I let them touch you."

All protests, doubts, and hesitation bubbling up in Bethany's chest abated, sinking under the surface before Theresa's naked, violent honesty. The coldness of the blade in her hand, from disturbing escape, became an unbearable shame. She let it slide between her palms and drop into her lap, the fall muffled by the robes and drowned by the Chanting.

Theresa didn't say anything. She didn't judge her, or berate her. If anything, her eyes showed pity, understanding, and a simmering anger.

"Tonight, in the free hour after supper. Meet me in the cloister on the ground level, under Andraste's statue." As she rose from the pew, Theresa stopped, thoughtful, then nodded to herself. "Don't tell Jowan any of this: I'm pretty sure that Sister Cow he fancies so much is one of Greagoir's little lures."

Bethany hesitated. If that was the case, didn't Jowan deserve to know, before he was baited into breaking the rules beyond repair and ruining himself? She didn't voice her doubt to Theresa, however. It would lead to bickering, and that would attract unwanted attention.

"And the Warden Commander?" she asked instead.

Theresa smoothed a crease of her robes and adjusted the belt around her hips. "Leave Duncan to me. And Sister Cow too, as a farewell gift for Jowan. Godwin owes me. You eat something solid at supper, alright? Empty stomach never made Warden mage, and we must work to impress."

* * *

 **Author Note** : _Since Rialto, the Antivan Capital, is lifted straight out of Venice, I'm using Italian (my native language), as the skeleton for the Antivan language. So, translations for the ships' names would be Scarlet Red (Rosso Cremisi) and Alacrity (Alacrità)._

 _Anyway, this is the pilot. The idea would be to write ahead quite a lot, contrary to my usual practice of writing and pushing out chapters as they come, then start uploading in the future at a reasonable, constant pace._

 _Let me know what you think: good things, bad things, if I've lost my mind (again. Surprise.), "what the hell did I just read" and stuff like that. Lay it on me, I have wide shoulders._

 _Until next time,_

 _Alexeij_


	2. 2) Cormac II - Loghain

**CORMAC**

Everything about Admiral Gustavo Biasìn screamed Antiva in the most flamboyant way. And not only Antiva, but Antiva merchant nobility, purebred Rialto Bay, the kind liable to have a murder of Crows at their beck and call to take out the rubbish.

From the two long-necked bottles of wine he carried - fine vintages both, Cormac recognized after a moment, one of which he recalled enjoying greatly at Fergus' wedding - as he strutted into Jarl Elderath's cabin; to the several shades of reds and yellows of his doublet and short cape, fitting him like a rather flattering second skin; even the greying thin, oiled mustache sitting proudly on a barely lined face of brownish skin, darkened by the glaring sun of the higher latitudes.

All spoke of pride and confidence, unashamedly so.

Compared to the Jarl's quarters, where Cormac was quite sure not a single wine glass could be found, unless plundered from some plunderers, and to the Jarl of Waking Sea himself, kitted out in a leather jerkin and fur over a sleeveless chainmail hauberk, the Antivan and his expensive finery stuck out like a punch in the eye. And yet, despite his lithe physique, he filled the space with his presence, his smile limpid and contagious.

Moreover, he'd come prepared to the Fereldans' infamous lack of sophistication, carrying three glasses together with the drinks.

"Jarl Eremon!" the Antivan greeted. His words smelled of cinnamon, barely perceptible over the lingering incense of Eldebradth's personal ceremony and the pervading smell of the sea. "And Lord Cousland too, the valiant Raiders! _Che piacere_! What a fine skirmish that was, my friends! Here, let's celebrate. We cannot discuss the dreary business ahead of us without a good glass or two."

Elderath grunted out a few words of greeting, eyes never leaving the Antivan, as if searching for rusted links to hammer out from a coat of mail.

It was quite amusing to Cormac, this display of inverted roles. Just minutes before, Elderath had been the one invading personal spaces and roaring laughter like it was going out of style. Now, the Jarl's cagey, xenophobic attitude was stirred awake, bred and nurtured into him by Waking Sea's centuries of isolationism, only to be reinforced the Orlesian atrocities during the Occupation. Atrocities Elderath himself had repaid in kind during the Liberation.

Thirty years after those bloody, heady days, Chantry missionaries might not be stoned on sight anymore, but the burned skeletons of the Chantries forced on the islands during the Occupation still remained as a broken warning for those bold enough to suggest bringing the people of the isles 'up to the current belief and Chantry doctrine'.

Since the Admiral wasn't Orlesian, a priest, a Templar or any combination of the above, but actually Cormac's relative and a fellow sailor, the half-giant accepted the offered glass readily enough. Still, he sniffed the contents suspiciously and quite overtly, gulping the wine down only after the Admiral had taken the first tasting.

Cormac had no such problems. Gustavo Biasìn was family, if of the acquired kind. Besides, they were on the Jarl's flagship, surrounded by some of the most ferocious and loyal soldiers on both sides of the Waking Sea. The idea of poison and backstabbing was honestly laughable, but Cormac would never tell the Jarl that. Any attempt to make him change his mind wasn't unlike talking with a wall, made of stone and jutting iron spikes and bloodlust out to skewer you.

Cormac was a great warrior, but he also believed the sea had instilled some wisdom in him. Suicidal battles, unless backed into a corner, were never a healthy idea.

"Tell me, Lord Cousland! How fares my niece? Still enamored with your handsome brother?"

"Please, call me Cormac, Admiral. No need for such formalities among family."

"Then you better call me Gustavo. Boy, you make me feel old already!"

Cormac chuckled and sipped the wine. It was as good as he remembered it, but thinking of Fergus made him crave their secret stash of brandy.

"She was more than well when I departed. My brother had just returned from Court. Don't tell her, but they were so sickeningly sweet on each other, I just had to raise anchor one day in advance, or my teeth would have rotten. I think they barely noticed." Gustavo laughed good-naturedly, echoing Cormac's own chuckle, but it didn't quite silence the bitter pang of envy flaring briefly in his chest. Guilt and self-disgust swallowed it in short order.

Cormac ignored the quick escalation with the ease of practice, not missing a beat. "Oriana keeps shaming the xenophobic half of the Landsmeet ladies with her charm and making the other half green with envy, all in one go. I'll say, at this pace, most of the nobles will go bankrupt as their wives and daughter try to match her and fail."

"I bet! You wouldn't believe how many jealous wives sent the Crows after her, only because their husbands would make fools out of themselves and trip over their own tongues the moment she stepped in any ballroom. Many a heart was broken irreparably when she married your brother!" The Admiral grinned and rose his glass into a toast. "To Oriana Biasìn Cousland, the fairest lady of this Age!"

The three men toasted and drank.

"On the matter of these ladies and their Crows," Cormac said slowly, mulling the fragile glass gingerly and fixing the Antivan with an inquisitive look, "any open contract still pending?"

Gustavo quirked an eyebrow, then smiled nonchalantly. "Oh, it's a thing of the past. Dead and buried." He shrugged. "The Masters take their contracts quite seriously and a Crow's word is his bind, but they also know that there's clients, and then there's benefactors."

The Jarl snorted. It sounded not unlike gravel pressed under the wheel of a mill.

"Wise, these limp-wristed Masters of yours. It would be annoying to send their little birds' heads back in a barrel of vinegar." He glanced appreciatively at Cormac. "Then again, might not be that much left either, if they raised a dagger on Lord Oren."

The Admiral smiled, his eyes twinkling. "Protective bunch, you Couslands, aren't you?"

"By deed and blood," Cormac quoted his family's motto solemnly. "Wouldn't you do the same, if your family was threatened?"

"I never incurred in the misfortune of marriage," Gustavo chuckled, twirling the wine in his glass before taking another sip, "but I can respect your conviction, Cormac. In Antiva, however, we're quite used to delegating matters of blood and vengeance to professionals of the craft. With rather successful results, most of the time."

Cormac's mind plucked a stray memory from the crash-course of Antivan customs and uses the entire Cousland family - which meant him, really - and retainers had gone through when the news of Fergus' surprise marriage dropped in their lap. He especially recalled his father's extensive mentions of the infighting between the nobility, and how sometimes that exploded into full-out vendettas, with the Crows fighting for both sides.

Inside, Cormac grimaced in disapproval. A family's honor and well-being was a personal matter, a personal responsibility. Not some kind of... competitive business. His face remained pleasantly curious on the outside, though.

"In Ferelden," the Jarl declared, "every warrior is his own professional."

Gustavo conceded with a diplomatic nod and toasted again, this time to the brave Ferelden warriors. After that the casual conversation was shelved and with wine warming their bellies just enough, the order of the day was tabled. Collectively, they agreed that the first joined Antivan - Ferelden effort against the Felicisima Armada and assorted pirates was a resounding success. Seven pirate ships torched and sunk, their crews dead or assumed so, with five more boarded and captured between them.

The first point of contention, if it could be called so, emerged when Admiral Gustavo tabled the issue of prisoners.

"What prisoners?" the Jarl asked, mildly annoyed.

"The pirates, Jarl Eremon," the Admiral replied, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Surely, the crews didn't fight to the last man? All of them?"

The Jarl snorted and drank from his glass. _'Well, at least he likes the wine.'_ "Some of the cowards threw down their weapons and browned their pants, aye. Didn't make much if a difference, since they lifted them against us in the first place."

Cormac judged it wise to intercede. "Piracy and plundering is a crime punishable with death in Ferelden."

"The law is much the same in Antiva, make no mistake," the Admiral agreed, his voice carefully neutral, "but we usually take a few back for public execution. To show the population - and our ever-watching rivals - tangible proof of our success."

"Their burning ships and the plunder we recovered are good enough evidence where I come from," the Jarl grated, unrelenting.

Cormac sighed inside, exasperated at the man who was like a second father to him. "There's also the matter of the food and water required to feed any prisoner, and the space in the hold needed to stow them in security." Cormac tried to defuse the sparks before someone fanned them into a fire. Father was counting on him, especially to rein in the Jarl. "Our ships don't have enough space for cells, and I won't take the food out of my soldiers' mouths to feed a criminal that's going to die anyway."

The Admiral became thoughtful for a moment, than shrugged with easy grace. "Fair enough. I'm sure Teyrn Cousland will be satisfied with your choices." He chuckled, waving a hand in a dismissive gesture. "Besides, the sharks and other marine monsters need to eat too. Better them than us."

Cormac and Elderath laughed along.

It was agreed that, as Brandel's Reach was far closer to Ferelden's shores than the Antivans, that Cormac and the Jarl would take the two more damaged war galleys to replace the two lost during the offensive, as well as a fourth more of the loot to balance out the two carracks and the dromon that would slowly trail Admiral Biasìn back to Antiva. The Jarl grunted and pulled a face here and there, arguing at some point on a larger share of the loot due to Ferelden's superior number of ships.

Cormac felt the mediator's shoes fit him badly. Privately, he agreed with the Jarl, as the Highever fleet and Waking Sea's had taken on some of the toughest targets and suffered not insignificant losses. Losses Cormac strongly wanted to validate.

However, his father's orders were clear, even if they ended up leaving a sour taste in his mouth. The joint offensive had taken too much effort to be organized to be hamstringed by something so relatively trivial. The first real bridge between Ferelden and a foreign nation since the Liberation was worth some sacrifices. Even if those sacrifices were Cormac's men, both as Kaptain of the Storm Raiders and Thane of Highever.

 _"Don't roll over for them,"_ Bryce Cousland had advised the night before he departed from Highever. _"Be firm, or they won't respect you, and by extension Highever and Ferelden as a whole. But concede on something. There needn't be a victor and a loser at the end of this, only two satisfied allies and a lot of dead pirates."_

 _'He should have sent Fergus for this.'_ But Fergus had just come back from Court after months, and Cormac hadn't had the heart to take him away from his family to handle something Cormac, as the spare heir of Highever, had indeed been educated to deal with, if not as extensively as Fergus had.

 _'Besides, heir and spare on the same ship is just asking for a storm.'_ Even for someone grown as much on the deck of a ship as he was on the mainland, King Maric's sudden disappearance and death had been a shocker, and a reminder that the sea cared little whether your blood was of a great line, or you were the last of Denerim's urchins.

Cormac wondered briefly and bitterly if father would be as agreeable as he'd asked of Cormac to be if he'd lost over half the crews of three of his ships. He found himself unsure of the answer.

"All that remains now," Cormac announced after the last bumps were smoothed over, "is to decide whether to head straight back to harbor, or show the inhabitants of this fine island some long-belated justice for their crimes." He pointed at one of the maps splayed on the large, dragonthorn desk. "Brandel's Reach main lair of lowlives is here, on the north point. Rat Harbor. If we land at night, with our numbers combined and surprise on our side, we can break their hold on this island. The Armada won't have a safe harbor for hundreds of miles."

Elderath stroked his braided beard, the longest tail of which reached just above his heart. Then he grinned hungrily.

"A bold move, Cormac. Risky, but catastrophic for the scum. Aye, why in the Void not! What do you say, Antivan? Your milk-drinkers are up to get close and personal and torch some hovels?"

"I admit it's tempting. To break the Armada's hold on these waters would benefit a lot many people," Gustavo said thoughtfully, tapping on Rat Harbor's position on the map. "We could leave the damaged ships here, under a shared guard. Maybe send a fast ship to Denerim, to inform them of our movements. I'm concerned, however: I heard of this place. The pirates rely heavily on prisoners and slaves as a work force."

"What about it?"

The Admiral held the Jarl's gaze unblinkingly. "Your treatment of prisoners is what concerns me, Jarl Eremon. I won't say anyone on those ships was innocent, and we indeed found no prisoners in their holds. The situation ought to be different in an established settlement. Less black and white."

The Jarl scoffed a laugh. "Your pampered lives and gold always make you soft and gullible, Antivan. I'll give you black and white: if they raise arms against us, then they are the enemy. Easy enough for you to understand?"

Cormac refrained from the urge to rub his temples, or just upturn the whole blasted desk in the confrontational Jarl's face.

Then the Prophetess Andraste took pity of his plight, and before the Admiral could work the Jarl into a pissing contest, breeches down and cocks over the bulwark, some knocked on the door. Loudly, and with much vigor.

"Who's there?!" The Jarl barker, turning his annoyance at limp-wristed milk drinkers to the unknown disturber. "Ah, screw it! Come on in!"

A moment later, Alfstanna stood on the door, arms crossed and bowing. Her cut palm was wrapped in linens, already stained dark.

"I beg your pardon for interrupting, my Lords. I have urgent need to confer with Thane."

The Jarl made to speak again, but a look from Cormac reminded him who was whose huscarl. Cormac exchanged a quick look and a quicker hand-sign with Alfstanna. A silent shudder worked its way up his spine.

 _"Message from Highever,"_ the agreed upon gesture said.

"Excuse me, my lords. I'll be back presently."

They retired to the _Sword of Mercy_ 's castle, where a single look sent the watchers there bowing and hurrying down the steps. Alfstanna handed him a small roll of parchment, no longer than his thumb when rolled up. An unassuming piece of string tied it close.

"It arrived on the messenger pigeon only minutes ago," Alfstanna whispered to him.

Cormac nodded. The birds were a little, well-preserved secret of the Highever budding Navy, developed by Cormac's grandfather on his mother side, the very Kaptain Hafter Reman who gathered the first Storm Raiders and became the nightmare of the Orlesian Navy during the Occupation.

The birds, quite common on the Waking Sea isles and on several stretches of the Coastlands, had the curious talent of being able to always find their way back to their nest. It had taken many pains, but two generations of Reman - Hafter and Cormac's own mother, the Teyrna Eleanor Cousland - had managed to painstakingly breed a few of them to set their nest on their ships.

The _Werewolf_ had one such nest, as did the _Laurels_ , his father's diplomatic ship. The pigeons, tricked in this sort of captivity, however, bred less eggs, making each one of them precious.

As such, the few grown ones kept at Castle Cousland were used only sparingly, for emergencies, their existence a well-guarded secret. Jarl Elderath, who'd been Kaptain Hafter Reman's closest ally and confidante, knew. Gustavo didn't, and for all that Oriana was the sister he never had, Cormac was remissive to disclose one of their few advantages on the - he begrudgingly admitted - more advanced Antivan Navy.

There was also the matter of his parents to consider. A very young Cormac had sent a pigeon to his lord father once, while Bryce Cousland was on an embassy in Cumberland. The fury of his mother when she'd caught him, hands still sticky with pigeon shit, had been something to behold. And fear.

Cormac broke the string and read the message. He blinked, and read the message again.

"Andraste's flaming knickers."

"That bad?" Alfstanna inquired, half amusement and half dread.

"The worst kind. Read for yourself." Alfstanna went through much the same reaction. He imagined he looked as pale as she had. "Come, they must know about this."

Alfstanna nodded numbly, then hurried to catch up to Cormac's long strides.

"We must postpone the attack on Rat Harbor and make for Highever immediately," he announced as soon as Alfstanna closed the door behind him, giving the three nobles their privacy again. "King Cailan is calling the banners."

"War?" Elderath breathed harshly, rising on his feet. "Where? Against whom?"

Cormac made his voice steel, hammering away the notes of disbelief attacking his mind.

"The Darkspawn. A Blight has begun in the Korcari Wilds."

"The Darkspawn?" the Jarl echoed, his face a picture of skepticism. "It's been four Ages since they last came to the surface. They should be all dead."

Cormac handed him the message, noticing how the Antivan's eyes zeroed on it in a split-second and his brow furrowed deeper. Too bad. Let him wonder. "The King and the Warden Commander think differently. There've been incursions in the Southron Hills, and a great Horde is massing in the Wilds."

"Or under them."

Both Fereldan nobles whipped around to face the Admiral, who was looking away, arms crossed in thought.

' _Right, the Deep Roads. Damn it, it's gonna be hell to scout them out.'_

"If a Blight has indeed begun, I must return home, my friends. While I would like nothing better than to see my beloved niece and enjoy Highever's hospitality, these are dark news. Terrible news. I must make for Rialto immediately." His voice was grave, his eyes hooded with dark prospects, a far cry from the jovial camaraderie their meeting started with. "Antiva was ravaged once before by the Blight. If an Archdemon has risen and the Horde walks on Thedas again, Ferelden will need help. Maker watch our steps, we all will."

 **LOGHAIN**

The flow of soldiers, servants, and elves streaming in and out of Denerim's Royal Palace parted before the flapping banner with the roaring Wyvern of Gwaren and the horsed party riding underneath it.

"Make way!" Sergeant Casdin bellowed. "Make way for Teyrn Loghain!"

Loghain Mac Tir, his features as forbidding as Kirkwall's highest cliffs, looked little the part of the hero out of a ballad, but respectful bows and cheers followed his passage nonetheless. What he might not look, his deeds in the Liberation and his leadership in the decades that followed more than made up in the eyes of the people.

The Teyrn seemed impervious to the admiration showered upon him, however. The look on his face was grave. His thoughts, only more so.

The small party trotted through Denerim's packed streets toward the spire of Fort Drakon, towering hundreds of feet atop the bustling cityscape. The closer to their destination, the more the raucous din of the city changed in tone and timbre. Shouted orders and the hammering of smiths soon resounded instead of merchants' biddings and fishermen calls, while armored boots echoed in the background, clanging on the pebbled roads or squishing in the ankle-deep muck.

Ferelden was preparing for war. This time, the threat came right out of the history books, or so that swine Duncan had convinced Cailan. Up to last night, Loghain would have chalked Cailan's eager acquiescence to the Warden Commander's ravings up to the King's obsession with myths and glory, a weakness easily exploited by those whispering into his ears.

After Howe's missives, however, a darker perspective had taken hold of Loghain's mind, filling him with anger and disgust.

Howe's Bard, the alleged Fereldan patriot hiding in the Empress court, painted a picture that pissed on everything Maric and Rowan ever stood for. Ferelden. Freedom from the Orlesian oppressor. Years of war and unending sacrifice, always watching for knives in the dark, always doubting, fearing the one trap that would spell the end of it all.

All of that was to be sacrificed on the altar of Cailan's deluded ambition and Cousland's corruption.

Howe and his Bard affirmed that Cailan was ready and eager to spit on the memory of his parents and on his very kingdom for a dynastic marriage with the Empress. That, in turn, would leave Teyrn Bryce Cousland, the man penning the incriminating correspondence with the bitch, in charge of Ferelden as Viceroy of the new Imperial Province, once Cailan moved to Val Royeaux to take up his puppet role as Emperor.

Loghain's spymaster, after a careful examination, had confirmed that the calligraphy in the letters indeed matched Cousland's and the Empress'. If that made the Bard's words any truthful, however, Loghain wasn't sure.

But of all things, the prospect of Rowan's sudden illness being Emperor Florian's last act of spite made too much sense to be ignored.

Underneath his shining suit of plate armor, pillaged so long ago from the dead body of Meghren's General, hate unlike anything he'd felt in years burned into Loghain's gut.

He dismounted in the Fort's main courtyard and handed the reins to a stable boy. All around him, Maric's Shield's soldiers were pitching horses to carriages and forming up in columns and companies for the imminent march south, to Ostagar.

A tall, young woman in armor strode up to him.

"My lord! Maric's Shield will be ready to march within the hour."

Loghain nodded and dismissed his guards, then waved at Ser Cauthrien to follow him. Neither spoke until the door of the Teyrn's office in the Fort was shut behind them, watched by two trusted men.

Cauthrien stood straight, legs wide and arms clasped behind her back, as the Teyrn poured himself a cup of wine and started pacing.

"Anora insists on summoning Teyrn Cousland to court, to answer before her to the accusations moved by Arl Howe."

Cauthrien didn't miss a beat. "If the letters speak the truth and he's guilty -"

"It'll give Cousland a chance to set sail to his masters, yes," Loghain spat. "Which is why you'll take the summon to him, with a Company of Maric's Shield to ensure his cooperation." He produced two folded letters, one stamped with the Royal Twin Mabaris, the other with Gwaren's Wyvern. "This is the summon. The other is instructions for Arl Howe. Anora wouldn't budge on summoning the whole family, as the correspondence makes no mention of the Teyrna or their sons."

Loghain sipped his wine, his frown deepening. Come to think of it, his daughter hadn't quite been herself during closed-doors their meeting. Nothing outrageous, but she had been sickly pale and almost distracted, sometimes staring in the distance even as they discussed and argued the betrayal of one of Ferelden's two Teyrns.

He knew she hadn't parted on the best of terms with Cailan when the King rode down to Ostagar with his retinue of hangers-on and young knights, leading the first round of levies from Denerim, South Reach, and the Southern Bannorn, hunting for glory and songs. The dire news he brought her, of her own husband intending to replace her with an Orlesian, must not have helped. Poor Anora.

If only she would give him a grandson! Then the Darkspawn could take Cailan, and he could grow the Theirin child to be the ruler Ferelden deserved.

Loghain drank again, banishing all thoughts of the King and his foolishness from his mind, albeit with some difficulty. If the Bard Marjolaine was right and Cailan was indeed conspiring with Orlais, then Loghain would deal with the King personally and make sure he wouldn't stain his parents' memory, or endanger Ferelden, any further.

Anora had a point, however. Cailan had penned none of those letters with his hand, but Bryce made mention of a private correspondence between the King and the Empress. If that was indeed the case, then Loghain knew where to find the incriminating letters. By now, however, they'd be at Ostagar. Nothing he could do about it, not until he marched Maric's Shield there.

"We can't know if the rest of the family is involved," Cauthrien stated, anticipating her liege lord's thoughts. Loghain nodded.

"You will instruct Howe to delay his troops for a few days. I know how Cousland thinks in matters of war: he will send the bulk of Highever forces ahead with his son Fergus." 'And if he doesn't, then there'll be no need for a trial.' " Once they're gone, apprehend Bryce Cousland and anyone who resists you. I'll deal with the young Cousland if he starts harboring thoughts of rebellion."

A civil war with the Couslands and their bannermen was the last thing Loghain needed, not with the Darkspawn in the south and an Orlesian invading fleet likely to appear on the horizon any day. Once Bryce Cousland was apprehended, however, he didn't believe that the elder so Fergus, green as he was in the matters of war outside his father's training, would pose much more than a tiresome annoyance, if the push came to shove. The Couslands might have large numbers at their beck and call, but so had the Orlesians at the River Dane.

It was the Highever Fleet that would potentially cause the most damage, should the Couslands prove to be turncloaks. Jarl Elderath of Waking Sea wouldn't hesitate to raid Ferelden's coast as he had Orlais' during the Liberation, out of fierce loyalty if nothing else. And that wasn't to mention the support the Couslands would likely receive from the merchant lords of Antiva, or their handlers in Orlais. Loghain held on that thought as something irked him, but Cauthrien was still waiting for her the rest of her orders, and he ought to get underway as soon as possible.

"You'll act with the Queen's authority, Cauthrien. Once Cousland is in custody, you will escort him here. Most of Maric's Shield will remain to maintain order in the area until he receives proper judgment, and Howe will march his forces south, immediately." Loghain nodded, then grimaced as his thoughts moved on to the next likely stage. "Anora will have to consult the Landsmeet."

"It might have to wait until this incursion is dealt with, my lord.'

"It might." And by that time, Cailan might well be dead and the Landsmeet called to confirm Anora as Queen. Loghain's hand twitched. He turned his gaze to the only portrait decorating the room, a triumph of red framing a hard, beautiful face.

 _'Rowan, I failed with him, and I failed you, but I won't fail Ferelden.'_

He couldn't afford to leave anything to chance on the assumption of loyalty, not with Orlais apparently ready to finally make its move. Loghain emptied his cup as Cauthrien saluted and took her leave. Shortly after, a portly man in a humble but clean servant garb knocked and walked in, carrying Loghain's frugal meal. The tray was set smartly, then the servant's stance shifted from humble to mildly inquisitive, head held high.

Loghain acknowledged his spymaster with barely a nod, eyes not leaving his maps.

"Send word to your people in Redcliffe, South Reach, and West Hills. If the Arls or their families make mention of Orlais or of the King repudiating the Queen, I want to know. Consult their ledgers as well, check for any large influx of gold unrelated to taxation and known investments, up to two years back."

The oldest of Cousland's letters to the Empress went back to Harvestmere of 9:28, almost two years back. Loghain wasn't blind to the poison the old nobility spewed on his daughter and him for their commoner blood, either. In all that time, Cousland could have well reached out to his kin, friends, and those who supported him after Maric's death. Cailan's election had been a close thing at the time, won only with the combined votes of Gwaren and Redcliffe.

But Arl Eamon Guerrin, the sly, cowardly fox, was also Anora's staunchest detractor, and his Orlesian marriage was a declaration if Loghain had ever seen one. Who was more likely to rowel Cailan's foreign ambitions than his Orlesian sympathizer uncle?

Outside the Guerrins sphere of influence, if Cousland, a man who'd seen nearly his entire family slaughtered throughout the Occupation, had already jumped ship to kneel and grovel at the Empress' knees, what guarantee was there that men like Leonas Bryland or even eminent Banns like Sighard or Loren hadn't been swayed by Orlesian gold and promises?

No. He had to be sure before any drastic action, but he had to prepare for the worst scenario in any case. Like he always had.

"If any of those nobles have changed their colors, it's possible anything from Bards to the Shadows of the Empress will be watching them. As insurance.," the not-servant pointed out sourly.

Loghain tolerated his impertinence only because the man had proved, time and again, to be an extraordinary asset, if an independent one. For the same reason, the Teyrn turned a blind eye on his less than reputable enterprises in Denerim's criminal underground and beyond.

"They'll have to take the risk," Loghain said, unmoved.

"Figures it'll be elves to take the fall for human machinations. How surprising."

"My patience is running thin, Couldry."

"I'll leave you to your maps then, my lord. I suppose that if my people are found dead in a ditch, then that will be a good enough answer, yes?"

* * *

 _AN: Thank you for reading so far. Special thanks to all those who favorited and added this story to their alert list, and to **Aegon Blacksteel** for reviewing the last chapter. To all of you, don't forget to **leave a review** and provide feedback. It's the only way I have to know if I'm doing something worthwhile, or if this has already gone too much off the rails. So write something in that Taint-accursed box below, will ya?_


	3. 3) Bethany II

**BETHANY**

It happened before the dinner bell's toll. The heavy beating of armored feet on the tiles and the distant screams snapped Bethany out of her hours-long daze of worry, hope, and fear. She'd been absently thumbing through some tome - Brother Genitivi's _Fade and Spirits Mysterious_ \- when a templar barged into the apprentices' quarters and barked at the mix of kids, teens, and the odd adult out like Bethany to stay put, before hurrying away.

The drawn sword in the man's clutch solidified suspicion into certainty that something had gone horribly, horribly wrong.

Bethany's first thought went to Theresa, that one of her hare-brained plots had been unveiled and things just escalated out of control from there. Even as such troubling thoughts hounded her, however, she allowed instinct to guide her actions and proceeded to soothe and calm some the smaller children who'd flocked to her.

So when she turned around to answer a tap on her shoulder, it was with surprise and flooding relief that she found Theresa standing behind her, toying with the hem of her sleeve.

"We must go, Beth," she whispered, features drawn. She patted one of the children on the head, as much as to keep the little boy at a distance as to offer real comfort. "It's now or never."

A knot of apprehension threatened to strangle her as she disentangled from the forest of small limbs with some difficulty, but Bethany managed to speak around it, "What's going on? Why are all the templars -"

A bloodcurdling shriek bounced off the walls, setting off the children a moment later. The magical, ever burning torches flickered as the wave of pure, Fade energy coursed briefly through them. Then the ceiling shook under an explosion. Dust rained down on the screaming apprentices.

Theresa's grip around Bethany's wrist sent a jolt of pain up her arm. Then her cousin started pulling.

"There's no time!" She insisted over the din. "It won't last long!"

Bethany followed Theresa out in a daze, then her words sunk and hit home. She planted her feet in the middle of the empty corridor, forcing the shorter woman to turn.

"What did you do?!"

"I didn't do shit!" Theresa hissed back, then her face hardened. "Look, we can stand around like old Tevene statues until the bucket heads come back and Tranquilize you, or we can go. What will you have?"

Bethany hesitated for all the second and a half it took her mind to helpfully provide her with the image of a sunburst stamp, gleaming blue and burning through her forehead and into her mind, resecting her connection to the Fade and her humanity forever. Amidst the churning dread in her belly, a knot of resolve tightened.

 _'You're a Hawke in a Circle Tower,'_ her father's voice seemed to whisper in her ear with a note of weary amusement. _'It's time to honor the family traditions.'_

Not sure if she could trust her own voice, she simply nodded.

Past the cloister, the staircase leading down to the underground levels was left unguarded. A single tap of Theresa's fire rod turned the first lock into a ruin of molten metal, glowing an angry, dull red. With a whisper and a small manipulation of temperature, Theresa coated her hand with wisps of cold and shards of ice that left a glistening imprint where her hand pushed the door, before the heat melted it to water.

Once inside, they realized why the templars didn't bother to station a guard rotation there.

"Nullification glyphs," Bethany said, pointing up at the lyrium-infused runes carved all over the archway and the door separating them from the phylactery sanctum. Theresa grunted and tapped the fire rod against the locked door once more, but only a trail of smoke wafted out, making Theresa cough and the glyphs glow.

"Andraste's flaming tits," Theresa swore through the sleeve of her robe. "Can't you work out a way to bypass them? You're the good one in this field."

Bethany shook her head, biting back a snappy retort on how their roles might have been inverted, otherwise. It was nerves, just nerves. Breathing didn't exactly help as a calming exercise when each breath tasted like smoke.

"Short of breaking a rune or scooping out the lyrium, nope." There was something else there, a pattern overlaying the single runes she knew she ought to recognize, but the notion refused to form a distinct shape in her mind's eye.

"We should try the other sections, then," her cousin decided, heading off down the perpendicular corridor and a brief flight of stairs. Bethany followed after a single glance at the way they came. The faint echoes of screams and battle were fading. She shook her head. The moment she followed Theresa in, there was no going back.

"I mean, Irving and Maker knows how many First Enchanters have used this place to store artifacts, tomes, and their smuggled Antivan trashy novels." She chuckled dryly, then her voice grew as stony as the hall they walked. "There must be something we can use to break in - or break them."

Bethany swallowed a breath, then it came out in a gasp when the magical torches lining the walls at regular intervals snuffed out, plunging them into complete darkness.

"What the - Beth, you alright? Still there?!"

In the complete lack of sight, the clanking, metallic steps that answered Theresa's query nearly cause Bethany's heart to seize right there and then. They were fast approaching, each pounding step magnified ten times by the echo. She found herself unable to move, unable to think, her body tensing up in reflex for the Smites about to crash on her.

Yet none came, and as the steps approached, the darkness and Theresa's hands lit up with a weak stream of fire that swept the corridor ahead of them from wall to wall.

It washed upon the stone, blackening it in the new, brief-lived light, then on the armored figures approaching with their swords drawn.

It wasn't the templars, she realized. Templars would have dispelled the spell, or Smote them in the first place. Not ambushed them with the cover of darkness. How stupid of her.

Thin runes glowed softly on the armors' surface as the flames enveloped them, and they powered through the thin Primal invocation without slowing. Bethany saw the eyeholes of the one at the front flash an ethereal blue, before Theresa's flames just exhausted themselves, and they plunged into the darkness again.

"One-Two Fire Fist!" Theresa shouted.

It was hard to cast without a focus, which in the Circle came only in the shape of honky, cumbersome staffs. Neither woman had one with them there and then, as Circle rules established they'd be handed over only during supervised spellslinging training or emergencies.

Still, Bethany had trained most of her life without one. Her father Malcolm had his, cleverly cut down and reworked as a walking staff, but enough lyrium to craft two staves for both Hawke magical children, or even one, was way above what the small family scraping for food and shelter could afford while on the run. Even after they settled down in their little farm in Lothering, bringing food to the table and clothes on their back had always been the main priority.

Bethany felt Theresa pull directly at the Fade, harnessing the unfiltered magic under her mana's command. Bethany focused on the very idea of light and warmth in her palm, instead. She drew from old memories of summer afternoons spent basking by the pond with her brothers and the touch of the sunlight on her bare skin. She recalled the heat of the flames consuming the bodies of bandits who'd reckoned the Hawke family was easy pickings.

A wisp of condensed light blossomed in her hand and took flight above their heads, bathing the stark hallway in a creamy light that banished away the darkness. The three tall men in old, grey plate armor were revealed fully, and awfully close. A moment later, the first aggressor reached Theresa and his sword came down in a beheading arc.

A shimmering blue barrier of overlapping arcane shields interposed between the blade and the mage. It cracked on impact, but the blow bounced back. Then Theresa's other hand swept out, and Bethany heard and felt the wave of pure concussive force slam into their attackers with a hollow, metallic sound.

All three were launched off their feet to crash a good ten feet back, bouncing off the walls and each other to land in a disjointed heap. Helmets, swords, and gauntlets went flying even farther, revealing blue-greenish blurs of shifting energy underneath, where flesh, hair, and blood should have been.

Bethany didn't stop to contemplate, however. Both palms outstretched, fingertips almost touching each other, she drew on the ambient heat and pictured the sun in her hands. One of her first instructors, Enchanter Evelina, once said that her fire spells were that much stronger because, unlike most mages her age with her same Primal affinity, she still remembered what the heat and warmth really were like, beyond the sterile word or the flickering fire of a hearth. It was why ice spells came easier even to poor Primal mages, like Theresa: the Circle was always cold. Even in the peak of summer, the Avvar stoneworks didn't retain much heat.

Tongues of flame started spinning in her palms, faster and faster. They coalesced into an orb of yellow and orange fire speckled with blue. Looking up, the armored constructs were finding their feet already. Bethany let her fireball fly, and the moment it streaked past, Theresa erected another shimmering barrier between the two groups. Both women shielded their eyes.

Roaring flames exploded outwards on impact, then continued up and down the hallway, funneled by the thick stone walls. Heat and fire washed against Theresa's barrier in a rolling wave that consumed all the oxygen in the air in seconds, yet kept burning on Bethany's mana until that was consumed as well.

Theresa lowered her magical shield. The hallway beyond was a ruin of chipped, blackened stone that hissed with residual heat. Of the walking armors, only half-melted metal and charcoaled leather remained, the lyrium runes burned clean off. The arcane constructs inside – or maybe even bound spirits, Bethany theorized - had vanished without a trace.

Theresa whistled, making Bethany almost jump.

"Overkill, much?"

"Well, you called that combination out."

"I said nothing about killing us with it, bumpkin," Theresa teased, then sobered up. "Where did those come from?"

The answer that had been evading her rolled off Bethany's lips, "There was an alarm embedded in the array protecting the door. It must have awoken the sentinels, or activated them."

"Spirits bound to armor," Theresa huffed. "Well, at least now we know there must be something worth dying for down there." She pointed at the opposite end of the hallway. A door they hadn't noticed before was now open, the outer side scorched by Bethany's fireball. "Come on. No other way than ahead."

It took several seconds for Theresa to summon a narrow cone of ice to cool off the pavement enough for the two mages to jog across in their thin-soiled, floppy boots. Her spell was enough to carry them halfway, and while her cousin regained her energies, Bethany imposed her will on the elements and coated the other half of the corridor with a film of ice. By the time they'd skidded and slid through, clouds of water vapor hung over the corridor, drenching their skin and making their robes stick uncomfortably to their bodies.

It wasn't over. Far from it. With a new sense of urgency born of not knowing how long it'd take the templars to pounce on them and any hesitation pushed to the side by the rush of using their magic so freely, the two cousins delved deeper into the Circle's dungeons. Bethany's spell wisp was the only light they had to guide them and part the darkness. Behind every corner, a new threat lurked.

More enchanted sentinels attacked them, yet always in small groups. The runes animating them granted the bound guardians a certain resistance to magic, but it mattered little when Theresa's Force Magic left them in heaps for Bethany to blast apart with the fury of the elements.

Despite the gut-wrenching terror, a small, excited smile turned up Bethany's corners every time one of her spells annihilated a target. It felt good to cast without restraints. It was exhilarating, to freely command her powers and feel the magic power on her fingertips, eager to be released again and again.

They passed barred cells, gaping and empty. They found research labs thick with dust from misuse, where bipedal, snake-like creatures as large as a young mabari had made their nest after tunneling through the ageless Avvar stonework. These ambushed the two mages, whose attention was so tuned to try and spot any more sentinels, they didn't notice them until their razor-sharp teeth bit at ankles and calves, but found arcane shields instead.

The critters were persistent and agile, difficult to nail down with targeted spells. Their chirps and shrieks bounced off the walls, amplified, making it seem they were everywhere and nowhere at once. They skittered and pounced from outside the circle of light, before retreating just as quick to strike from another direction.

Bethany and Theresa were forced into a running battle, hounded and harassed incessantly, and soon they were panting from exertion, magical and physical both. Their flight took them to a workshop-like area, and dread plummeted Bethany's stomach when she saw the several suits of sentinel armor arrayed against the walls and onto an operating table at the center of concentric circles etched with runes.

When none arose to challenge them, however, she spun around. Words died on her lips as the jaws of a larger specimen bit through her shield and into her calf with a sickening crack. Theresa screamed and fell.

Time slowed to a crawl as worry and battle-rush tore her in different directions. Theresa's hand lashed out and her scream broke into a sob as her spell threw the critter against a wall and snapped its neck at the price of a pound of her flesh.

Her mind and body straining with exhaustion, Bethany forwent direct onslaught at the door that acted as an impromptu funnel. Instead, she summoned the least mana-intensive glyph in her repertoire at the entrance, catching half a dozen hungry critters in a paralyzing trap. Next, her mana coaxed the upper layer of the pavement beneath them to soften into thick, sludge-like oil that splashed over the creatures and entangled the legs of more.

The critters screeched and hissed, kicking up viscous goblets. Viscous, and highly flammable. Bethany sent the tiniest flick of fire in their direction, and then almost doubled over as the stench of burning, charcoaling flesh rolled over her like a physical force.

"Bit- Bit of a hand here?" Theresa groaned. She was pale from blood loss and crying silently from the pain. She'd dragged herself at the base of the nearest table, where one of the suits of armor was laid out, unmoving. Blood seeped through her hands and torn robes as she tried to staunch the widening pool under her leg. A strip dangled loosely from her thigh, a failed attempt at a tourniquet.

Bethany gasped and kneeled beside her cousin. She tapped into her connection to the Fade, plunging both hands into that imaginary flow. A green aura enveloped her hands and expanded to encase Theresa's leg as well. Slowly and carefully, Bethany directed her mana into Theresa's wound, first to mend the bone, then the torn nerves and blood vessels and muscles. She coaxed the body into rebuilding the shredded tissues layer by layer like a mason, only using flesh and magic instead of bricks and mortar.

The stream thinned, and her healing aura flickered. Gritting her teeth, Bethany mentally pulled, imposing her will on the recalcitrant Fade and her thinning mana reserves, and for a moment her energies surged. She used the boon to cast a rejuvenation spell on Theresa, then rushed to reknit the superficial layer over the tibia. It'd scar over, but it was better than infection.

Then the surge vanished, and the pain from abusing her magic came, flooding every inch of Bethany's body and robbing her of her breath. She didn't fight it, only maintained enough awareness to cushion her head as her body flopped on the hard floor like a fish whose neck had just been snapped.

Her last thought before oblivion embraced her was one of bitter regret and failure.

* * *

At first, Bethany thought she was flying. Then she felt the cold metal pressing against her cheek and the solid arms tucked under her knees and around her shoulders.

For a delirious moment, she thought Luthias Dwarfson had come from paper and ink to whisk her away on the back of a griffon.

Then her eyelids unglued and she remembered that the only knights she knew were templars, and they'd sooner make her Tranquil or execute her for her trespassing.

Bethany swallowed, then pushed away with both hands and tried to wiggle free from the armored arms holding her. She managed a half-roll away before hands as strong as stone closed around her ribcage. Arms trapped, she was turned upright and the air squeezed out of her chest.

"Hoy, stop! Put her down, you stupid oaf!"

Just like that, the vise trap constricting her ribs snapped open. Bethany would have crumpled on all fours like a dog, but then gentler hands grabbed her firmly, and she found herself with a face full of Theresa's straw-like hair and rueful grin. Her head spinning, Bethany blinked, stunned.

"Theresa?"

"Who else? Come on, put your feet under you. You aren't exactly a feather."

With some support, Bethany managed to straighten up, legs wobbling from exertion. She was in a richly furnished room, bathed by warm lights that caused a bit of cognitive dissociation compared to the stark contours and encroaching darkness that marked every step of their dungeon delving. Bookcases overflowing with tomes and heaps of crates lined the walls, while carpets old and older covered the floors. Magical torches burning yellow and orange rather than blue hang from iron sconces on every pillar, casting an unnaturally bright light that revealed a plethora of time-eroded statues of beheaded men and sitting mabari.

"W-where are we?" Bethany coughed out, craning her head this way and that to take everything in. Then she stopped and slowly turned around to find a large suit of armor standing directly behind her, as stiff and unmoving as any of the other statues, if not for the red light glowing through its eye slits. "What is -"

"Don't sweat it, Beth. That's - well, I haven't named it yet. I don't want to get too attached." She shrugged and, limping slightly, picked up a decorated staff from where it leaned against one of the columns. "When you passed out, I couldn't leave you there, so I, uh, animated one of the sentinels they kept in storage?" She nodded to herself. "It carried you the rest of the way. Thank the Maker the coast was mostly clear from there."

"Wait, wait, slow down," Bethany said, brow furrowing deeply. The sentinel hadn't reacted at all. The glyphs covering its armor were powered: they glowed a dull red, however, rather than the lyrium blue of the ones they'd blasted to pieces on their way in. "How did you do that? Even I don't know what half these glyphs mean."

Theresa shrugged, hooking the enameled staff into the crook of her elbow. "Oh, you know, it wasn't that hard. Most of the ritual was complete already, and they left some helpful notes around for the rest. It was all about binding the wraith to the armor. But look at this!" Theresa suddenly grinned, larger than life. "An original Tevinter staff! Isn't that sweet? It's been down here for Ages."

Theresa twirled the staff around and struck a pose. "Cool, right?" Then she handed it over. "You should use it. You'll benefit more from the focus, and I have the sentinel to order around anyway."

Bethany hesitated, then carefully accepted the staff. The moment her fingers brushed the decorated wood, she felt its lyrium core reach out to her, humming and replenishing her reserves so fast, it left her dizzy for a moment.

"Where are we, anyway?"

"Into the repository. There's a backdoor into the sanctum around here, I think," Theresa supplied. She snapped her fingers and pointed at one of the libraries. With a creak of badly-oiled joints, the towering guardian started towards it. "Uldred told me about this place. Well, more about that statue over there. There's a spirit trapped there by some powerful blood magic, and it gets chatty when you approach it. She told me there's another access into the sanctum behind that bookshelf."

On cue, the sentinel hooked its gauntlets around the wooden frame and started pulling. Soon, a dragging screech of wood over stone announced its success, and the bookshelf slowly started to turn on invisible hinges.

"Come on, put your back into it!"

Bethany felt like she was must be dreaming. The lack of demons whispering in her ears and warping the Fade around her, however, denied that option.

"She?" she finally asked, glancing at the only statue with a head. It did look vaguely feminine, if she looked closely and from a certain angle.

Theresa nodded. "She claims to be some magister lady by the name of Eleni Zinovia. Supposed to be Archon Hessarian's mother, from how she puts it. That staff you're holding is hers, and the other statues should be the rest of her retinue. Her husband must have really hated her."

There was no time to contemplate the terrible fate of the petrified woman or what she might have done to deserve it, however, nor for Bethany to stop and reckon that she was holding a relic older than the Circle and Andraste herself. With one final pull, the bookshelf stopped moving with a metallic click, revealing a smaller door behind it. A sudden urge to earn her freedom took hold of Bethany. Her stomach flip-flopped in excitement as she scanned the archway above the new entrance, and did another somersault when she found no carved nullification glyphs.

Could they really be this lucky? Could it be?

Theresa whooped and tapped the rod of fire against the locked door. The runes down its length flared blue, then they dimmed as a considerable portion of the door lost cohesion, melting into slag.

"Last charge, it seems," Theresa moaned, then pocketed the thing and covered her hand in ice again. The door, however, didn't budge an inch. "Damn it. It must have worked too well!"

"Then tell it to break it down!" Bethany snapped, belatedly recognizing her tone as the same one her mother used when she grew exasperated with her brothers. "Sorry."

"That's actually a good idea, bumpkin." She snapped her fingers theatrically and stepped aside, making space. "Oaf, you heard her?"

The sentinel's steel-shod boot slammed into the door, sending chips of rapidly cooling metal flying and leaving a deep indent into the softened steel. The next strike was a full-body charge that echoed in the chamber like a Maker-sent earthquake. Bethany didn't hear the metal snapping. She only saw the door fly open, and the sentinel crash down on its face.

A rush of freezing air made Bethany tremble in her robes as she stepped around the sentinel and into the sanctum. The room was surprisingly small, if graced by a very high, arched ceiling. Frost runes like the one that spelled her fate as a Tranquil decorated the walls at regular intervals. It was by following them that her eyes fell on the glass case against one wall and the rows upon rows of vials within.

The sentinel's fist shattered the protective casing with two well-placed punches, and the two women carefully extracted the vials, searching the ones labeled with their names. Theresa was confident hers was there too, as she had faced her Harrowing only the night before, and the courier left for the Grand Cathedral in Denerim only once a week.

"We could shatter them all and be done with it," Theresa groaned at the tenth vial, shivering and shifting where she sat to keep her blood flowing. She was shooting increasingly worried glances at the far door, as if expecting it to swing open at any moment and vomit templars. Bethany was doing the exact same.

"They'll just draw it again from the rest," Bethany reminded her, rubbing the scar on her arm where the templars cut her when she first reached the Circle. "And they don't allow healing magic for that. I'd prefer to spare the children if we can."

"Right, right. Keep looking."

A few seconds later, Theresa froze, staring at a vial in her hands.

"What's wrong?" Bethany asked immediately, hope warring with worry.

Theresa swallowed thickly. Her voice and the condensed air escaping her lips had a tremulous note to it when she spoke, "Nothing, I - I found Jowan's."

"Ah," Bethany said, confused at her cousin's reaction. "He'd like to be here now, I think."

"Yep," Theresa agreed, then shook her head and put the vial aside. She gave a weak chuckle. "Maybe he'd have brought Sister Cow along. Mage and Sister, ready to elope, a romantic fugue away from the lands of the White Divine - Hey, I found yours!"

"Really?!" As an answer, Theresa handed Bethany a tiny glass vial filled to the brim with congealed blood. It wasn0t different in any way from the other dozen Bethany had examined so far. Weighed about the same, and the size was identical. The only difference was the tiny strip of paper tied around it, with her name written on it in First Enchanter Irving's minute calligraphy.

 _Bethany Hawke._

It was the only difference that mattered. An irrational part of her mind insisted that this was the step that would set her free. The rest reckoned that it wouldn't be over until they managed to convince the Warden-Commander to conscript them. Still, in the frosty chamber, the glass felt almost scalding against her naked palm.

"You want to do the honors?" Theresa teased, grinning.

The distant, familiar beat of metal on stone made Bethany's complicit smile evaporate. Theresa's light complexion, already exacerbated by the copious blood loss, became a deadly pale. She snapped her fingers, and the massive sentinel charged at the warded door, pressing its armored back against it and bracing against the stone pavement.

"Hold the door! Quick, we must find mine!"

Without a second thought, Bethany threw her phylactery against the wall. The glass shattered and the near-solid mass of blood left a long stain on the old stone as it slowly slid down. It was like a burden she hadn't been aware of was removed from her shoulders.

Theresa's hands were sowing chaos in the orderly rows of vials, picking them and flipping them aside a moment later as progressively fouler expletives rolled out of her mouth in an endless string. They were echoed by an almighty crash against the door that made the sentinel's feet skid an inch, and several voices shouted at each other before a bellowed order silenced them, and the voices were replaced by more crashes.

Commander Greagoir's hard-edged words managed to topple even that din.

"Amell! Hawke! Come out immediately! That's an order!"

"Fuck! Fuck!" Theresa hissed as a jagged piece of the glass case cut into her triceps. She lurched back, fresh blood oozing down her arm. "It's not here! Beth, it's not here!"

Bethany healed her cut, finding her tongue dry and fear gripping her heart. What would they do now? Was the Warden-Commander with the templars? Would they even have a chance, before the templars just executed them?

"Your phylactery was already taken by the First Enchanter, Amell!" Greagoir bellowed. The sentinel was slowly being pushed back, shove by shove. Already, the templars' fingers were curled around the door's edge. The blade of a wide sword appeared next, bending as an impromptu lever.

"We must surrender," Bethany found herself saying. She was met by Theresa's nearly panicked look. If she hadn't been nauseous with fear, she'd have appreciated the inversion of their roles from the Chantry just a few hours before. "They'll bring us to the First Enchanter. The Warden-Commander will be there," she added with a certainty only the desperate could pull off.

Theresa blinked, then nodded and gripped the front of Bethany's robe, eyes flashing.

"Destroy it, then."

"What?"

"Destroy the sentinel!" Theresa pleaded. "Please, trust me. I can't explain now."

Bethany stared at her cousin for a moment, dumbfounded. It was only a moment, however. Eleni Zinovia's staff and the magical frost permeating the room made it exhilaratingly easy to envelop the silent sentinel into an arctic cocoon. The ice magic seeped into the small imperfections in the metal of the armor, freezing it inside and out and making it as fragile as glass.

Her spell burrowed deeper still, however, following the trail of the magic animating the armor. At its core, it found a presence, simple, yet unmistakably alive. Just before her spell killed it, she felt it reach out and try to breach the barrier between the material world and the Fade. To return home.

Then the red light in the helmet and coursing through its runes flickered, dimmed, and died.

The next push shattered its legs and arms. The swinging door batted the rest of the body away, sending it crashing into a wall, where it exploded into a thousand shards.

The templars barged in, half a dozen strong. Their cuirasses were stained with dark blood and glistened where an icy sheen cracked the metal. Some didn't even wear the telltale bucket helmet, revealing hard, focused faces marred by fervor and traces of underlying fear.

At the front of the formation was Knight-Commander Greagoir himself. Bethany dropped the Tevinter staff, raising her empty hands up. So did the templars, at the behest of Greagoir's pointed finger. One leg forward, spine straight, and hands wide as if to embrace the sky and the Maker's light shining from above, an otherworldly light flashed around them for a single moment.

The Smites fell like hammers, tearing the mana away from Bethany's body and suppressing her connection with the Fade. The agony was such, her body simply gave up on her. Bethany fell listlessly to the floor. The pain of her skull cracking was a distant sting as her body rebelled against the magic coursing through every fiber of it. She didn't even have the force to scream.

As darkness encroached her vision, she saw Theresa manage to climb on one knee. Blood dribbled from her nose and her teeth were bared in the feral expression of a cornered beast bleeding from a dozen wounds.

"You – pig. We surrender!" she gasped, forcing her other knee under her, before bowling over and dry-retching.

The templars grabbed her by the armpits and dragged her away. More mailed hands pawed at Bethany, lifting her from the floor until only the tips of her boots scratched the pavement. Knight-Commander Greagoir's face swam into her vision. His lips were pursed, and the frown embedded between his eyes only enhanced his deeply-lined face.

"I'm very disappointed in you, Hawke. Take them away."

The thermic excursion from frosty to chilly told her they'd left the sanctum behind. Distant creaks of hinges spoke of doors opening and closing. Her feet bashed against the sharp edges of the steps as the templars carried Theresa and her out of the dungeons and on the Circle's ground level.

"Put them down, Greagoir," a soft, paternal voice urged, sounding like it spoke from a thousand miles away, "don't you see, they can't arm you or any of your men."

"I'll be the judge of that, Irving. We've already had a demonic possession today. I will not risk another!"

The hands carrying her let go and Bethany flopped on the cold, harsh floor. With a grunt that was more of a groan, she tried and turn on her back. A wrinkled hand touched her shoulder then, in a silent command. Then the pain in her head subsided as the familiar warmth and sting of a healing spell washed over her, and Bethany found she could think clearly again.

"Still, my child," Irving crooned, steadying her, "let's not give the Knight-Commander any more provocation."

Bethany tried to speak. It came out as a croak, her throat refusing to let go of words as jumbled as her thoughts.

"What... demons...?" _'Oh Maker, it hurts so much!'_

In the corner of her vision, Irving's bearded face was a study of sad resignation.

"I believe Enchanter Amell knows the answer to that particular question. Don't you, Theresa?"

"I don't have, gah, anything - anything to do with what happened."

"Then why won't you look at me in the face, child?"

Unheeding to the First Enchanter's counsel, Bethany gritted her teeth against the ebbing agony and forced her body to turn on its back. She managed a weak slump-roll on one side in the direction of Theresa's voice. Her vision swam and her brain felt like it was sloshing inside her skull. Theresa didn't look much better. She was half-sitting, back propped up against one of the columns of the cloister. Blood dribbled from her nose and a busted lip, and there were two towering templars holding their blades at the ready for a beheading strike on either side of her. Something told Bethany a similar blade was hanging just above her neck, and it was hard to resist the temptation of curling up into a ball and just... let go.

 _'Maybe they'll kill me, rather than make me Tranquil.'_

No. It wasn't over yet. This sort of treatment by the templars had always been part of the plan, a stark possibility. The destruction of the phylacteries was just a step. So was the pain, the fear, and the imminence of impending death, or worse. Maybe if she repeated that mantra enough times, it'd become true. And maybe the Warden-Commander would appear on a shining horse and whisk them away to a place where mages could just... be, and live, albeit fighting nightmares for a living.

At her age, she'd a lifetime experience in at least surviving her nightmares every night.

"Reticence won't benefit you, child," Irving insisted to Theresa, his words nearly drowned by Greagoir's angry pacing. "The timing of your attempt is too coincidental for there to be no link."

"I saw a, urgh, a chance... and I took it. For me and - and for my cousin." Theresa hacked again. She swayed where she sat, expression feverish, barely managing to remain upright.

"Enough!" Greagoir thundered. A portion of the Knight-Commander, up to his scapulas, entered Bethany's skewed view. "Do you deny any involvement in Jowan's possession, Amell?! Two of my templars died before the abomination was vanquished."

Theresa visibly cringed, then bent forward and spat. "I deny it. It's all on you, Greagoir. You, and your little agent. He – he really thought she loved him, ah. That – that backstabbing cow."

On the floor, Bethany's eyes went wide as saucers as she connected the pieces. The shrieks, the magical disturbance of the torches, the ice on the templars' armors… _'Oh, Maker, no!'_

Jowan had been possessed, by a desperation demon. Kind, awkward, desperate Jowan. And Theresa _knew_. Why else that reaction in the sanctum, when she found his phylactery? She knew something. Maybe the reason why.

The bud of suspicion blossomed in her mind, taking root.

"As you wish, Amell," Greagoir said, then turned to a blond, stern-faced templar, whose eyes snapped from Theresa to his commanding officer. "Ser Cullen, bring the brand."

' _Nononono! Where is he? Where's the Warden?!'_ Bethany tried to move away, slither on the stone tiles. The cold touch of a blade to her throat made her swallow and hesitate. _'It would be so easy – Would Irving let me die?'_

The First Enchanter's hand left Bethany's shoulder. "Greagoir, consider what you're saying. She's passed her Harrowing. She's proved she can control her magic. I will not give my approval on this."

"Quiet, Irving! I will supersede you on this matter. Newly a mage and she already made a mockery of our rules and prevention measures. She's a danger to the Circle, to all of us, and likely the maleficar we were looking for all this time." Bethany saw him turn, but couldn't see his face. It didn't matter, the words hit her nonetheless. "Tranquility is a kinder fate than the death she deserves. And Hawke was already scheduled for the brand anyway. It'll be quick."

Bethany met Theresa's eyes as they flitted around. The panic she saw there made any lingering hope plummet. Then Theresa's face hardened with resolve.

"Maferath's balls, Greagoir! Stop! I'll tell you who they are! I'll give you all the names!"

"What's this madness, Amell? If this is a delaying tactic –"

"I know you sent Lily to weasel the names of the blood mage coven in the Tower. We all knew. Jowan was the only one fool enough to fall for her wiles," Theresa spat back, dragging herself to a more dignified sitting position. "I'll tell you everything, and then you can even execute me if you're so intent on it. But I want your word as a templar, your oath before the fucking Prophetess and the Maker himself, that you won't make Bethany Tranquil."

"Knight-Commander, you cannot trust –" a templar interrupted, indignant voice muffled by his helmet.

Greagoir silenced him with a gesture and marched closer to Theresa, hiding her partially from view. "What assures me you're not lying to cover your ilk, putting forth the names of blameless, innocent mages?"

"You'll have to trust me."

Irving ambled into Bethany's field of view, stopping at Greagoir's side. First Enchanter and Knight-Commander exchanged a long look, heavy with things that needn't be said after decades of working side by side. Greagoir nodded his assent.

"Very well. I swear."

Theresa took a breath, looked at Bethany, then closed her eyes and started to rattle the names. With every added one, clouds rallied on Greagoir's face and even Irving's fatherly concern darkened to deep worry. It seemed most of the Libertarian party were involved to some extent. Chief among them was Senior Enchanter Uldred, the leader of the Libertarians, who'd departed for Ostagar a week before to answer the King's call for assistance. Then there was Enchanter Gwyneth, his treasured student. And more, enchanters and apprentices alike, until over two dozen names tallied up.

"From where did you all learn the forbidden practice, child? Have you consorted with demons?" Irving insisted after Theresa was done. Her cousin had bowed her head, looking defeated to the world. It made Bethany's heart reach out for her, but at the same time, she couldn't help but be shocked at how much she didn't know about her cousin, how she didn't see the truth even when it was directly under her eyes and walloping her over the head with a ladle.

How could Theresa have become maleficar, without her realizing it?

' _The sentinel, you stupid fool. Theresa's blood was everywhere. And you still didn't notice.'_

"Uldred taught us, one by one," Theresa said, and Bethany's heart broke. "He learned from a statue in the repository. The only one with a head. The spirit of Magister Zinovia is sealed within, though she might as well be a demon under guise for all I know."

There was a long moment of silence, then Greagoir dragged a hand down his face and sighed.

"It seems your plan succeeded, Irving. Albeit with some complications and collateral damage."

Bethany's heart skipped a beat. Her mind reeled, trying to make space for the sudden revelation. Theresa's head snapped up, horror and shock writ large upon her slackening features. Even the blade at her throat trembled in surprise. The First Enchanter, for his part, nodded solemnly. "At a terrible cost, and one that will not be soon forgotten or repaid. It's tantamount we handle this swiftly this very night, but with caution. I'll assemble the Senior Enchanters and distribute the Litany of Adralla."

"W-What in the Void?!"

The First Enchanter turned to Theresa, wizened softness vanished from his voice. In its place, scalding condemnation deepened the lines of his face into dark crevices and flashed in his old, grey eyes. "Hush, maleficar. We've known all along there was more of you, embedded within the Libertarians and beyond. Lily failed to extract the names of your accomplices from Jowan, but after your Harrowing, the Formless One revealed to us that the reason for your expedite results was your use of Blood Magic to overcome the trials. Did you honestly believe the Circle had no way to communicate with the entity who's overseen the Harrowing since its infancy?"

"The documents for Hawke's Rite of Tranquility were left in clear view for you to see," Greagoir continued, growling anger replaced by relief and glowing satisfaction. "Irving figured you'd go to any length to help your cousin, even stage an evasion, and then Owain reported you had borrowed a fire rod from storage."

Irving shook his head, folding his arms over his chest. "Nobody thought you'd manage to penetrate into the sanctum itself, and young Jowan's extreme reaction to Lily's conviction for lyrium smuggling surprised us all. I presume that was your work as well? I advise you come clean and reveal the identity of the real smuggler, just so you can meet the Maker with a clear conscience."

"You… you –" Theresa bristled, failing to find the words. The templar swords inched closer to her neck, the holy warriors turning to their commander for the order to proceed. Greagoir and Irving waited for a few more moments, but when Theresa proved to be no longer forthcoming with the information, the First Enchanter turned to Bethany.

"And you, child? Will you prove your loyalty to this Circle?"

To her shame, for a single moment, Bethany's first instinct was to follow the call of authority and comply with the First Enchanter's command. He was the First Enchanter, after all. He should know that Godwin was probably the smuggler.

Then her jaw clicked shut, even as Ser Cullen reappeared, carrying the gold-woven sunburst brand glowing with that sickening hue of lyrium blue that made Bethany want to just whimper and curl up in a ball.

Irving sighed, his face softening with sadness. Greagoir had no such emotional qualms.

"So be it. What matters is that no blood mage in this Circle will see another dawn. But first, we must deal with these two." Greagoir marched up to the laying Bethany until even when looking up, she couldn't see higher than the flaming sword painted on his cuirass. "Ser Cullen, the brand."

"Greagoir, this is unnecessary," Irving urged again, "she was obviously misled by her cousin. A long sojourn in isolation may yet rehabilitate her."

"I will not suffer the accomplice of any blood mage to pose a risk to this Circle! She may have been corrupted already. And she was scheduled to take the Rite anyway."

Mailed hands grabbed Bethany by the arms and shoulders hard enough to bruise and brought her up to eye level with Greagoir. The brand was in his hands, sunburst seal glaring straight at the center of her forehead. The Knight-Commander's face was resolute and pitiless, a foil for the vague hints of regret on Irving's drowned under a rising tide of acceptance that washed along familiar paths on his face. Bethany found herself hating them, both of them, like she'd never hated the hunters who killed her family and tore her away from her crying mother after beating Carver into the ground.

Hate turned to anger, and the faint voices of demons in her mind, always reaching out through her connection in the Fade, feasted and gorged on her emotions. They grew louder and more seductive in their promises of relief, vengeance, and freedom. If only she let herself go and accept one of them, just this once…

Theresa's voice broke through that din. "Oathbreaker! You swore!"

"And the Maker will hold me accountable when I walk before him! Not the likes of you, maleficar. Kill her."

The brand rose. So did swords over the Commander's shoulders.

' _ **Abandon yourself to me, little Hawke, and you'll fly free,'**_ the demon whispered in her ear.

"Knight-Commander, First Enchanter, if I may."

The brand stopped, and there he stood, as if answering a prayer. Tall and menacing in plate silver and ocean blue, the rampant griffon embossed on his chest and the winged helmet tucked under one arm identified the groomed man as none other than the Warden-Commander. His voice, a smooth and authoritative baritone, commanded to be heard without question or interruption. Even with his weapons sheathed, his stance and the set of his brows spoke of menace and terrific fighting prowess even to Bethany's shocked and untrained mind.

"Duncan, now is not the time," Greagoir growled, exasperated. "We're in the middle of a crisis if you haven't noticed. We shall speak in the morning. Ser Cullen, escort the Warden-Commander to his lodgings."

The young templar turned to comply with the orders, barely managing to hide a flash of guilty relief. Duncan raised a stalling hand and walked closer.

"I heard and saw enough, Greagoir. My condolences for your templars. But you will not submit this young woman to the Rite, nor execute the other. It's my intention to invite them to join the Grey Wardens."

Duncan's words echoed in the sudden silence of the cloister. Bethany felt like she could break down and cry just there and then, with the brand inches away from her forehead. For his part, the Knight-Commander almost dropped the Maker-cursed thing, whipping around to glare down a rather unimpressed Warden.

"You would reward a self-admitted maleficar and an untested apprentice who showed no regard for this Circle's rules with a position within the Grey Wardens? What madness is this?!"

"Greagoir, mages are needed," Duncan stated. "Worse things plague this world than maleficar. You know that. A horde has formed within the Korcari Wilds. The Blight is upon us. We need every Warden to stand before its advance, or we'll all be swept away."

Greagoir brandished the brand as if he was about to strike Duncan with it, or press it on his forehead.

"No, I refuse to let this go unpunished!"

"Be it as it may," Duncan conceded, "I stand by my decision. I will recruit these mages." His black eyes flitted to Bethany for a moment, searching. Bethany froze, then nodded frantically. Apparently, it was enough, and those eyes returned to the Knight-Commander. The templar was purple-faced, working himself up to a stroke. Veins bulged across his temples and on his thick neck. Duncan continued with the same inflection, "They showed resourcefulness and initiative in circumventing your security, despite the risks." He turned to regard Theresa then and the blades about to run her through clinked in defeat on the stones. "Few would go so far for family, especially when faced with their own death. I will invoke the Right of Conscription on them if you force me to, Greagoir."

Irving lay a pacifying hand on the Knight-Commander's pauldron, resignation evident in his voice and the shake of his head. "Your indignation falls on deaf ears, my friend. The Grey Wardens were first created by the Tevinter Imperium, no matter what the tales and legends claim. How do you reckon the Magisters forged the ultimate weapon against the darkspawn? How would they give them the means to repel the darkspawn?"

Duncan's dark eyes turned flinty, but Irving held the silent confrontation until the seething Greagoir managed to recover enough of his composure to march away and motion his men after him. The hands supporting Bethany let go and she remained standing on wobbly legs that felt they were made of porridge rather than flesh and bone.

"Please send a healer to tend to their wounds, Irving," Duncan commanded as he steadied Bethany and guided her over to where Theresa still sat. Her cousin looked conflicted about whether to feel stunned or euphoric. "Food, as well. We have a long journey ahead of us."

* * *

The mellow touch of the pale, climbing sun made Bethany's skin itch and her eyes burn with unshed tears. The gusts of cool wind breaking on her and screaming into the stone halls she was leaving behind had her squint and wrap her traveling cloak tighter around her body. Her first step out of the Circle and onto the rocky shore sent pebbles rolling down the slope. She swayed with lingering dizziness from Petra's healing spells and had to lean on her staff like a walking cane.

Bethany swept her hair out of her face and took a slow, deep breath, letting it fill her lungs anew. With a creak of wood and a ring of metal, the Circle's doors swung shut behind her. Bethany jerked around at the booming sound, fear climbing up her spine, but there was only Warden-Commander Duncan there, hoisting a backpack full of provisions over his silvery armor. Where he'd looked like he'd stepped out of a legend before, he now offered her a kind, strained smile, one weighed by age and worry, then urged her on with a tilt of his head.

Down the short path leading up to the Tower, at the end of a lonely peer, a rowboat was moored. Bethany barely remembered it from her brief journey with the hunters, five years prior. She only recalled bits and pieces of those days, pulsating flashes that would come back to her at night, but right now, outside the tower, already felt more vivid and sharp.

The tall, balding man on the boat tugged at those strings of memory. He waited on the rolling boat, puffing on a pipe with his feet kicked back. Behind him, Lake Calenhad was alight in the late dawn, its surface gleaming like a thousand glass beads bathed in orange and rippling with every gentle wave.

It stole Bethany's breath away, and for a moment, it distracted her mind from the harrying events she'd just left behind. Then they came back, urgent and demanding her attention, and the colors of her first dawn in five years seemed to dim somewhat.

 _'Oh, Jowan.'_

A couple of steps behind her now, Theresa wiped the tears from her eyes and took one, long look at the sky above her, eyes squinting, then widening like saucers. The blood rushed from her face and her knees started to wobble, then her entire body shook, as if wracked by a sudden fever. Her staff slipped from her grasp and she crumpled on all four, retching her soul out.

"Too... big."

* * *

 _So, yeah. This was a long one for a single POV, and it kept growing and growing. I hope you liked all the changes and twists, little and bigger, from the canon origin, and what they may imply for the future plot of this story. I didn't feel like dedicating so much limelight to a rehashing of what every good Origin fan ought to have played and read through a dozen times over, especially since the actors involved are different, and there's no gameplay or engine limitation here to flesh out additional things or have certain characters live up to the impressions they left me. I'm speaking of Irving, who I always felt was too sly a fox in the Mage Origin to bumble around as clueless as he is in the game._

 _My thanks to_ _**Aegon Blacksteel, Loki Good of Evil,**_ _and_ _ **DmCrebel25**_ _for their reviews and critiques. A shoutout to everyone who favorited and added this story to their alert list as well. I hope to hear from you under this chapter. Thank you for reading. Until next time,_

 _Alexeij_


	4. 4) Cormac III

**CORMAC**

Oren's giggles could be heard over the clopping of his pony's hooves on the fenced ground outside the stables and the controlled chaos of Castle Cousland above them.

Cormac watched his nephew with a small smile as the child of five squirmed against the straps securing him to the saddle, there more to prevent Oriana from poisoning their afternoon tea than anything else. The pony trotted in a wide circle, led as much by the long rope in Fergus' hand as by the leashes in Oren's tiny fists.

His brother was positively beaming.

"Good, Oren. Very good. Lead him gently."

"Look at me, papa!"

"You're a born horseman, son."

The half-grown mabari skipping beside the horse woofed in approval and Oren giggled at Chill's antics. The pony, an old thing named Popo, broken in and all too accustomed at the antics of the Cousland children and proteges, simply huffed through his nostrils and kept on trotting.

Leaning on the fence beside him, Alfstanna clicked her tongue. "Reminds me of someone."

"Har har. Very funny. I heard the mummers troupe from last night's missing a comedian."

"You wish, my Thane."

They watched in silence as Fergus led Oren around the edge of the corral another time, then Cormac sighed as he recognized the unique brand of hurry of a messenger approaching. Hoping to give Fergus another few precious minutes, he intercepted the young elf boy and took his message, then sent him away clutching a copper coin close to his chest.

A few minutes indeed.

"Please, papa. Another round! Just one!"

Fergus looked torn for a moment, but only a moment. Cormac envied him a little for standing his ground under the combined onslaught of Oren's and Chill's puppy eyes. "Papa has to meet with grandpa, Oren. Uncle Cormac too."

Oren's face fell a little, then he nodded at his lap, not quite meeting his father's eyes. Cormac knew Fergus would happily spend the rest of the day with his son if he could, but truth was, even the past hour had been possible only through a carefully arranged combination of foreplanning, bribes, and Oriana masterful misdirection their lady mother, straight out of Rialto's court. Really, the messenger boy deserved the copper only for tracking them down.

Long before the _Werewolf_ and the fleet had docked with their prize in loot and captured ships the week before, levies, knights, and a veritable river of carts, supplies, craftsmen, camp-followers, swindlers, and hangers-on had been flowing into Highever. Most of the city's inns were packed by those who could afford them, while a large camp had been erected a mile from the city for everyone else, numbering almost two thousand. In the meantime, Castle Cousland hosted a few dozen banns and landed knights, as well as a good number of Cormac's officers and raiders. More arrived every day to answer the King's and the Teyrn's call to arms. Rarely had Cormac seen the Great Hall so full to the point of being suffocating, even during Satinalia celebrations, and more would join Highever's army on the way south.

And now the latecomer Arl Howe had shown up. Cormac groaned at the thought of the balding man and his single-minded obsession with marrying off his daughter to a Cousland. It made him miss the _Werewolf's_ deck and dread the months to come ruling in his father's and brother's place all the more keenly.

 _'Maker, I beg you, make it that Delilah and Lady Eliane stayed home.'_ The message didn't say, but it was a remote chance, as neither woman was known to be involved in administering the Arling in the Arl's absence, and the rally was also a high society occasion, for good or ill. A good number of noblewomen and their nubile daughters had followed their husbands, brothers, and uncles to Highever, a fact his mother Eleanor had made him part of not ten steps from the _Werewolf_.

Sometimes, Cormac felt like he had a large target painted on his back.

From Alfstanna's too blank look as she stared pointedly at the display of horsemanship, the dread must be showing on his face. And this from his huscarl, sworn by blood and steel to protect his life. Oathbreaker.

"Say, Oren," Cormac piped up, tasting the sweet nectar of petty vengeance, "would you like Aunt Sanna to teach you more? She's a _terrific_ horsewoman."

Oren brightened up a little and Alfstanna's fixed smile melted away when Chill bounded over to the fence, a furry ball of sunshine mirroring his master's renewed excitement, but also begging for scratches and treats. Cormac readily supplied, hands lingering a bit on the dog's short, coarse fur, so similar to his Jenna's, the dog's long gone mother. But then, thankfully, it was time to go.

"Thanks, brother," Fergus said as they waved at Oren and left the stables behind side by side, taking up the long trek to the main gate. Cormac had a couple inches on his brother and at least two stones of muscle from years of battling and rowing, but it was Fergus the servants and guards looked and bowed to first. The dashing, roguish looks of a barbarian lord were as useful in commanding respect and deference as they were in swooning chaste Antivan maidens.

Cormac snorted at comparing that mental image to Oriana.

"Don't mention it. I still owed Sanna a bit of a dressing down from that stunt with her father."

Fergus chortled and slapped him on the shoulder. "I appreciate your sacrifice. Really. How will you survive the Great Hall without your huscarl by your side, ready to defend your honor and chop off roving hands?"

"I'll stop by the armory first. Pick up a halberd."

"You and your delusions. I saw how you looked at Lady Landra at the feast last week."

Cormac, kaptain of the Storm Raiders and scourge of the Waking Sea, shuddered. "Say that again and I'll sail to Par Vollen without looking back."

"At this point, I think mother would welcome even a Qunari wife and little babies with horns."

Cormac glared and Fergus threw up his hands. "I yield, oh mighty warrior." Then the laugh lines on his face fell. He stopped and looked Cormac dead in the eye. "Should something happen to father and me -"

Cormac clasped his brother's shoulder. "I'd be Oren's regent until he comes of age, not an hour longer. I won't take Highever from him."

Fergus clasped his in return, but his tone was grave. "I was never worried about that, Cormac. I know Oren and Oriana will be safe with you, even more than they'd be with me. My warrior brother." His smile was rueful as he shook his head. "But this isn't Orlais or even the Chasind. It's a Blight. The last one lasted what, thirty years? And the ones before that even more. You'd be Oren's heir, not only his regent. You know father's words."

"There must always be two," Cormac quoted. "I know."

If the Rebellion and the near extinction of Calenhad's main line, as well as the complete eradication of more ancient blood, had taught the Ferelden nobility anything, it was caution and paranoia. After King Maric liberated Ferelden, most major and minor noble families had taken religiously to the heir-and-spare policy, no matter what fate dictated. Fergus and Cormac were a fourth and sixth child, respectively, but their parents had never relented, despite the odds, losses, and the hardships of the Rebellion and its aftermath.

In light of that, it was almost offensive that the legendary heroes of the Rebellion had come up short in that regard. King Maric had begotten only a child of Queen Rowan and her brother Arl Eamon, only had one quite late in life, and with an Orlesian sow to boot. The less said about Bann Teagan, unapologetic bachelor almost in his forties, the better. And many a noble, especially those with pretty, unwed daughters who could catch the King Cailan's hungry eye, thought Loghain had sired one too many as it was.

Fergus offered him a smile and they started again. After a moment, Cormac sighed. "At this point, I may as well ask Oriana to play matchmaker." He pitched his voice high and dreamy even as Fergus elbowed him. "Another Cousland barbarian storming the Antivan court. Who do you think will get me first, the Ferelden fathers or the Crows?"

"My gold is on Alfstanna."

Fergus ducked under Cormac's cuff without breaking stride, and the two brothers shared a laugh as they walked through the gate.

* * *

"My apologies, Bryce," RendonHowe said later, sipping wine in his father's office, warming up to the blasting heat from the roaring hearth. "The last storm has made a mess of the coast roads again. I left orders to circle around in the northern Bannorn, but the bulk of my forces won't be here before three days."

The hawkish, aquiline man had looked indeed like he'd ridden hard through a storm when he showed up to the gates with a strong escort of fifty men. He'd been offered warm clothes and solace, but the news made Cormac scowl. Three days of delay, possibly more. He couldn't deny he was slightly miffed at the older man for not accounting for storms when the northern coast of Ferelden was known as the bloody Storm Coast. On the good side was that Lady Eliane and Delilah were not accompanying the army either.

"I could take the fleet and ferry them," he offered as his father nursed his own cup. "We would cut it down to a day and a half."

"Not with the supply train following my men," Howe parried with that easy familiarity and condescension that came with being an old family friend. "It's going to be a long campaign and the early harvest was generous. I brought all I could spare."

Cormac turned to his father, who shook his head and sealed the deal.

"Good thinking, Rendon," Bryce said. He lifted his chalice and clinked it with Arl Howe's, then leaned back in his chair. "Three days, even a week isn't too much. I've received words that Guerrin is still mid-mustering. Still, the King and Leonas are already at Ostagar, and Loghain is marching down as we speak. Fergus. You'll leave with our forces here tomorrow at dawn. I'll wait for Rendon's and for the latecomers." Bryce took a sip and chuckled. "It'll be like old times, my friend."

Howe smiled back. "Ferelden united against a common enemy. Just like old times indeed."

* * *

Two nights after Fergus' departure, a storm pelted Castle Cousland. Cormac dined with his family and the still large number of noble guests hosted at the castle. Some had already left in the morning and now probably envied the hot, stifling atmosphere in the Great Hall.

Spring and summer had been generous so far, but Cormac was quickly growing weary of feast after feast to appease Highever's guests, despite understanding the necessity. He bounced Oren on his knees until his eyelids drooped, helped the boy sneak Chill scraps under the table, and even conversed amiably enough with Arl Howe at the high table.

All the while, he tried to ignore his mother's arched looks, commanding him to stop being a boor and at least notice with more than nods and empty conversation the polite, pretty, and otherwise unremarkable girl she'd parked beside him for this evening. No easy task, since the girl rarely went beyond a few feeble, stuttering sentences before something caught her eye at the other tables. Then she'd look down and poke at her food, alternatively pale or flushed in a way that couldn't be healthy.

At some point, he even felt a little pity for her, another victim of his mother's matchmaking machinations, and actually tried to make her a bit more comfortable by bribing Chill into putting her head into her lap and work her magic. Mabari, after all, were a sure-fire way to giggles and good mood.

It worked for about ten seconds, then she glanced at the Hall, paled, swallowed, and looked down again.

At that point he gave up, giving his mother a stern look to express that he'd tried his best and was thus beyond reproach. Eleanor just sighed and went back to speak, or rather help contain, Lady Landra Loren, who by the flush of her cheek had drunk a cup too many. Again.

It was with some relief that he walked out of the Hall some time later, following one of his Storm Raiders officers. He was shadowed after a minute by Alfstanna, emerging from the chaos and merriment of the Hall. In any other occasion, she'd have sat at the high table, both in respect of her noble rank and her position as huscarl, but tradition and use were nothing to Eleanor Cousland's determination to see him married by the next Harvestmere.

"What's the matter, Kopral Uther?" he asked the officer. With most of the Castle Guard gone south with Fergus and the fleet moored for the foreseeable future, his father had asked him to reassign a good chunk of his men in rotation to supplement the garrison. His father could have ordered him to do so just as easily and within his full rights of Teyrn, but he didn't, something Cormac appreciated. He saw no reason not to comply anyway.

"Two of the patrols haven't shown up, kaptain. They went west and south, to scout for Arl Howe's forces."

"Either they met them and stayed the night to rest the horses, or they're camped out at some farm to wait the storm out."

"As you say, kaptain. Thorfinn and Rayland are with those patrols."

Cormac frowned at that. Those two were scouts among his raiders, and he _had_ given orders to both patrols to be back by nightfall, even if they met Arl Howe's forces. He could see some of the common soldiery and scouts decide that the storm was reason enough for an exception, but Rayland and especially Thorfinn should know better.

"It could be anything," Alfstanna said, brushing the hilt of her runic knife. "Wolves, bandits, a horse breaking a leg in the dark..."

"Could be, but still. Double the guard at the gates, put someone on the spyglass, and send a runner to me when either patrol arrives, no matter the hour." The officer saluted and left, leaving Cormac and Alfstanna alone in the side corridor.

Cormac leaned against the thick, hewn stones of the wall, and dragged a hand down his face. He felt them vibrate with the sounds of the feast inside.

"Give me pirates every day."

Alfstanna chuckled and leaned beside him, crossing her toned arms over her doublet. "If you want to slip away, I could think up an excuse."

He snorted. "I appreciate the willing sacrifice, but your vow doesn't include facing down my mother."

"And you didn't have to face my father when I disrespected both of you in front of the crew."

"Don't speak nonsense. Of course I did. You're family."

Alfstanna looked away at that, then flicked her shieldmaiden braid. "I'm your huscarl. You let me off the hook too easily."

Cormac rolled his eyes and pushed off the wall, breathing in as if readying for battle. "Let me be the judge of that. The rest of the crews are still drinking their share of the loot away, and they'll have enough to spare for another month. You're stuck with me here. Now come on, or my mother will send Chill to sniff us out. I swear, that mabari is a whore. No loyalty."

* * *

Night fell and the revelers dispersed. Cormac bid his family and Arl Howe goodnight and walked the battlements, speaking with the men and waiting for the missing patrols. Through the screen of the rain, Highever was a collection of hundreds of fires a few hundred feet below. The rain fell harder now, a veritable downpour that chased the sentries inside.

After an hour, Cormac relented and made for his family's and guest quarters. Even with the recent largess and the renovations of the castle with some of the profits from the Antivan trade, only half a dozen rooms were up to the standard of noble guests, so much that the minor banns and nobility were lodged in another, repurposed wing of the castle, or had rooms rented in some of the best inns in the city.

The door to his father's study was closed when he passed by the library, muffling the laughter inside. _'Must still be speaking and reminiscing with Howe'_. His mother had already retired for the night, but there was candlelight streaming under his brother's quarters.

Oriana was probably reading to Oren again: the child had an avid mind for stories and since his father left, asked and begged for more until he literally collapsed from exhaustion. The tale of Morrighan'nan and Luthias Dwarfson was one of his favorites, but also one Oriana disapproved of, so Cormac would share it in instances whenever he was alone with the child. He smiled as he passed their room, then bid Alfstanna goodnight.

After much tossing around, however, sleep wouldn't find him. Thunder roared, shaking the stones of the castle, and lightning flashed outside his window. Looking out at some point, he could barely make out the lights from the wall towers, much less the city or the harbor further off.

He was sharpening the blade of his long ax, his sword next in queue, when he heard the steps beyond the heavy oak door of his bedroom. Figuring one of the patrols had come back and Uther had sent a runner, he rose to meet him at the door.

Then there were screams and his door was kicked open.

His ax split the first head to rush in before he could say Maker, but the second killer pressed in with sword and shield, slicing at Cormac's unarmored form and forcing him to abandon the stuck weapon. He ducked under the first blow, stepped back from a bash, then kicked the man in the chest, sending him staggering into a cupboard and giving him enough time to draw his sword.

The next strike, aiming to severe Cormac's head from his shoulders, met his silverite blade instead. Swords locked, Cormac grabbed the edge of the enemy's shield and pulled, head-butting the exposed face, then stabbed him under the armpit and twisted the blade. A fountain of blood spurted out when he freed his sword, and the attacker collapsed.

Red encroaching his vision, Cormac grabbed his round shield and barreled out of his bedroom, clad only in a shirt and wool slacks. The hall echoed with screams, shouts, and barked orders. Two men were attacking the door to his parents' room with axes, while more charged in from the exit leading into the guest quarters. The door to Fergus' room crashed open under an onslaught of axes.

Only then he saw the clawing bear coat of arms on their shields and armor and recognized the captain of Howe's escort pointing at him.

"Kill him!"

"Highever!"

The two axemen worrying at his parents' door only had the time to be surprised before they died. Cormac buried his sword into the base of one's spine and the silverite edge of his shield crushed the throat and snapped the neck of the other. Battle-honed senses pushed to the extreme by fear and bloodlust, he heard bowstrings draw taut and crouched under his shield. The whitewood shook with impact but held, then Cormac stabbed high, slicing the femoral artery and piercing the codpiece protecting the groin of the man charging at him, leaving him to bleed out on the ancient carpet.

Two more advanced, harassing him with halberd and spear, keeping him at a distance working in tandem. Behind them, Howe's captain redirected his men through the door they just came from, shouting orders Cormac didn't catch. A door creaked open behind him then. A crossbow twanged and a bolt hissed past Cormac's shoulder.

It found its mark in the side of the halberdier and Cormac exploited the opening. He caught the spear on the boss of his shield and sliced the wounded soldier's belly open, then spun around and stabbed through the spearman's hand, cheap gorget, and throat with enough strength to lift him off his feet and nearly decapitate him.

An arrow grazed his ribs, then the archer fell, clutching at a crossbow bolt protruding from his chest. Howe's captain hefted a falchion and shield.

"You and you! I want the child and the whore dead! Everyone else, with me!"

Four Howe men locked shield and advanced on him, covering the other two going for Oriana and Oren, blades out. Cormac threw caution to the wind and charged the armored shieldwall in desperation even as his mother's next bolt found one of the soldiers in the leg.

"Highever!"

" _Highever_!"

The shieldwall stopped in surprise as a body collapsed on the threshold of Fergus' room, a wood hatchet buried into his face. Then Alfstanna charged out, Fergus' old sword in one hand and Oriana's silver candlestick in the other, both dripping blood and brain matter.

The base of the candlestick crashed into the temple of the leftmost soldier. The silver bent, but the man staggered out of formation. Cormac barreled full-tilt into Howe's captain and the other soldier standing, striking shield on shield with the force of a battering ram. Even as Alfstanna lopped off her opponent's sword arm with a two-handed reverse cleave, the captain took a step back and slipped on the blood of the dead archer, falling to one knee.

Cormac's kick sent the last standing soldier tripping over the one with a bolt stuck in his leg. The captain's slash bounced on his shield. In return, he plunged his sword into the gap between his gorget and breastplate, piercing his heart. When he turned around, his mother, still clad only in her thick nightgown, was driving the point of a halberd into the throat of the man Cormac tripped. He finished the last one before he could go for his dagger, then turned to Alfstanna, voice shaking.

"Oriana and Oren?"

His huscarl was panting and he was sure some of that blood was hers, but she stood resolutely. "They're alright. Shocked, I think. Oren's fainted, but they didn't touch them. I made sure."

"Good. Get them and your armor." He promised himself to thank her later, if they made it out. _When_ they made it out. He went to the door to the silent guest quarters and stopped at the sight waiting for him on the other side. Not so distant, the battle still raged. He had to find his men, but he also had to protect his family. "Mother?"

She dropped the halberd on the corpses, grimacing at the stench of blood and voided bowels, then picked up her crossbow and joined him. "Howe, that treacherous knave! We must find your father, gather the guests... Maker!"

The guest quarters were a sight of gaping doors and bloody bootprints marching out of rooms. Some of the guests had managed to leave their rooms before they were slaughtered. He spotted Dairren Loren with sword in hand, Lady Landra's son and his father's squire, lying still not two steps away from the bodies of his mother and her elf maidservant.

"But why?! Why would he do this?"

Cormac spat, then stepped back and barred the door to the family's quarters. "Howe must think he can get away with butchering us and take Highever for his own while the army is away and the King and Loghain are preoccupied with the darkspawn. And this... leadership. He wants to weaken our loyalists. I'll feed him his balls."

Putting on his boots, vambraces, aketon, chainmail, lamellar cuirass, gloves, and aventail helmet took him about two minutes without help. Icy hot fury, knowing that his people were dying and that Howe's reinforcement could barge in at any moment only made his hands swifter on the buckles. He kissed the votive image of the Prophetess on his wrist for last, then marched out.

Alfstanna was buckling her shield on and his mother had tied a full quiver of bolts to her belt, but six pregnancies and a late life of relative comforts had left her old armor an impossible fit. She'd put on boots and a thick, hooded cloak instead and grabbed a handful of family heirlooms in a bag, as well as what food there was. Even after thirty years of peace, his mother had never really forgotten the fleeing days of the Rebellion.

Oriana stood nearby, carrying a fainted Oren in her arms. She was shaking lightly under her cloak and he was sure it wasn't from her son's weight. Her fair face was speckled with blood and he saw the gilded knife he'd gifted her for the marriage at her belt. She'd wrapped a scarf around her mouth and nose to ward off the smell and her eyes were puffy, but she stood straight. Chill was at her side, sniffing around and licking her paws with innocent curiosity, but never too far from her master.

"Stay close to Alfstanna and me. Both of you. We're going to fight our way out of here."

She nodded, adjusting Oren's weight. "But where will we go? Arl Howe can't have tried this with only fifty men. There will be more."

Cormac unbarred the door, received a nod from Alfstanna, and braced his shield, but it was Eleanor who answered, caressing Oren's mop of dark hair.

"If we can retake the castle and the city, we do so. Otherwise, we make for the harbor and evacuate. The laurels won't wither as long as a Cousland lives."

* * *

Charging down the incline leading to the family quarters, Cormac and Alfstanna carved into the back of the Howe defensive line. The formation wavered and the shieldwall of raiders and castle guards pushed through, overwhelming and cutting down the enemy in moments.

All around them, Castle Cousland was on fire under the storm. Roofs burned and flames danced out of shattered windows. The fire even attacked the stone, blackening its surface.

"Kopral Uther! Report!"

"Kaptain, good to see you! Arl Howe's men opened to main gates to a horde of mercenaries. We were forced to retreat to the Great Hall. Ser Gilmore leads the defense there, but they were trying to flank us last I was there. They're fighting all over the city, but there's no way to send a message to Kopral Garrick at the harbor. We're cut off." The big soldier took a breath and coughed from the smoke, then breathed out, "Sir, they have apostates. This fire is not a natural thing."

Cormac cursed under his breath. Mages were the last thing he needed to face now. Where were the Templars when one needed them? "Is my father in the Great Hall?"

Under the soot and blood caking his exposed face, Kopral Uther paled. "I thought he was with you, sir."

"He meant to spend the evening drinking with Howe in his study," Eleanor said, horror and anger tingeing every syllable. "We should check there and gather the guests from the other wing."

"My lady, we couldn't hold that wing of the castle. They were too many. It was them, or your family."

A cry of alarm went out then and the time for words was over. At Cormac's order, the men formed on him and met a dozen mercenaries in varied weapons and arms with a wall of wood and steel. Oriana took refuge with Oren and a barking Chill in an alcove as Eleanor and another crossbowman took advantage of the height to harass the outliners, but the balance was tilted by the strength of arms in the melee. Cormac pushed and stabbed, Alfstanna and Uther on either side of him. One of his raiders was pulled out of the line by a strike to his knee, then skewered by a spear before he could be dragged back. His comrades avenged him threefolds and encircled the mercenaries. After that, it was a slaughter.

"We can't stay here," Cormac said once the last enemy was silenced. "We'll make for the kitchens. There's a hidden tunnel that leads to the stables there. We'll gather everyone we can and my family's arms from the vault on the way. I'll take the front. Uther, you have the rear. The wounded and those who can't fight, stay in the middle and don't stop! This isn't the end of Highever, men! Not as long as we draw breath! Onward!"

Cormac led them through the servants' passageways and around the Great Hall, where, by the sound of it, Ser Gilmore and his men were giving the mercenaries the fight of their life. Cormac spared a silent prayer for the brave, loyal knight, then continued through corridors barely large enough for two men abreast and alive with the echoes of fighting and ragged breathing. The library, a scholarly treasure even the Orlesians had spared during the Occupation, was on fire, his father's study buried behind an impassable wall of flames and fallen timbers. His mother's cherished gardens became the site of a quick and bloody skirmish that left bodies sinking in the Swan Pond, where legend had it two star-crossed lovers had morphed into the beautiful birds to fly away. The slaughter increased at every turn, with servants, squires, guards, children, and guests lying where they'd been slain trying to flee or fight.

In the barracks, most of the garrison had been slaughtered in their sleep and only a pocket of bloodied raiders and guardsmen held against Howe's forces and the mercenaries. Cormac's group, their ranks swelled with wounded and terrified servants, guards, and Ser Willem, an elderly knight from West Hill, fell upon them like the storm raging outside, repaying blood with blood until the tiles were submerged into a uniform film of red and viscera.

His father was nowhere to be found. Cormac had held a tiny sliver of hope for the family vault, but they found only a thick gaggle of mercenaries failing to break through the reinforced door. The fight was fierce and cruel. The recovery of the ancestral Cousland arms, as well as enough riches one could carry, was paid with half a dozen more lives from his retinue.

More servants were hidden in the kitchens and the pantry, overlooked so far by the invaders. Old Nan, the head cook, nearly struck Cormac with a meat cleaver when he barged in.

He cut her off before she could start harping on anything. "My father's here?!"

"We haven't seen him, milord."

The last ember of hope flickered and died, but the sheer weight of presence of the few dozen people around him, crammed into the kitchens and needing direction, banished the rising sorrow and canalized the anger into fuel to feed his tiring body.

"Mother, the tunnel. Kopral Uther, take half the men and secure our exit and any horse on the other side. I'll hold the rear until everyone's across. All of you, take as much food and blankets as you can carry!"

His mother had other ideas. "Son, your father's missing and Fergus isn't here. Leave one of your officers to hold this end. You must lead."

"They have you, mother. I am their kaptain, a Thane of Highever: I can't ask my men to do what I won't myself." His hand was on her shoulder, but his tone was of command, uncompromising and authoritative. "Oren is more important than I am. Than all of us. Once you're across, I'll be right behind you. Go now. Please."

He stopped Alfstanna as she walked up to his side and the gaggle of fighters forming around him. "I need you to protect Oriana and Oren. Be their sword and shield."

She hesitated, eyes flashing for a moment with words unsaid, then crossed her arms and brushed past him.

"Don't be reckless," she whispered.

"You know me."

The kitchens became a flurry of hushed activity, shattered only by the grind of stone on stone that reassured Cormac the passage still worked after so many years. Fear gave everyone's feet wings, kept just short of a panicked rout only by sheer force of personality. Soon, the pantry started swallowing people up.

Cormac removed his aventail and gobbled down some bread and cold venison as his haggard forces set up an ambush around the kitchens' entrance. There were nine men total, most with only half their armor on, all of them wounded. The most hale he'd sent with Alfstanna and Uther to secure the way ahead. Ser Willem hung back, hefting mace and shield. Outside, the echoes of battle and death bouncing on the stones from the Great Hall petered out, galvanized at odd times by unholy explosions and blood-curdling screams cut short.

Then there was only the faint begging for mercy, the gruesome squelch of executions, and beating steps, growing closer.

Cormac swallowed, closed his eyes, slipped his aventail back on, and hefted his sword. "Stand strong, men. They're coming."

The first mix of mercenaries and Howe's men to barge into the kitchen, already drunk with bloodshed and the prospect of looting, were cut down before they could put up any significant resistance. Cormac was still freeing his sword from a ribcage when cries of alarm and rallying command picked up all around them. The volume of running steps grew tenfold, shaking the stones under his feet. Then, it stopped.

Cormac peered over the rim of his shield, feeling the bemusement of his men as his own. He could hear Howe's forces just outside the door, one order away from swarming inside in a storm of steel, but that order didn't come. Two words rang above the collectively held breaths, instead.

"Blast them."

Cormac's eyes widened to the size of saucers. "Take cove-"

A ball of flame almost too bright to look at screamed through the door and splashed against one of the pillars. Gouts of fire and wind exploded outwards, picking Cormac up and tossing him like a rag doll across the room. Ears ringing, he felt something in his chest break as he crashed on the tiles and skidded to a halt.

He lay on the floor for a long moment, breathless, head swimming with looping thoughts. He found himself staring at the ceiling, voices droning just beneath his notice. Every breath was like molten fire that poured down his throat and settled in his lungs.

Strong hands grabbed him by the armpits and started dragging his body. Above, the ceiling groaned and started to cave, flames eating at it with gusto. Gusto. What a nice word. He should ask Oriana to teach him more Antivan.

* * *

Cormac heaved up to a sitting position, hacking and half-choking on the vile liquid forced down his throat. His ribs flared up in pain and his head felt like it had been clubbed by a giant, but as his vision focused in the glow lighting up the night, Alfstanna's and his mother's faces came into focus, wet and dripping rainwater.

"What - what happened?" he coughed out. His hand searched for his sword. Alfstanna offered it to him by the hilt. "Where are we?"

"Easy. Still in the stables," his mother said, cupping his face and turning it this way and that. "Howe's mages knocked you out. You were almost buried under the rubble. Some of the guards heard the explosion and dragged you out just in time."

Cormac closed his eyes against a dizzy spell. The familiar stench of manure and horse-shit was giving him nausea now. "My men? Ser Willem?"

"Dead or missing, my Thane."

Extricating himself from Eleanor's fretting, Cormac accepted Alfstanna's hand up. The world spun twice before settling into a resemblance of steadiness.

"How do you feel?"

"Like someone who's been nearly burned to bits and then force-fed a healing draught. Better now. Thanks." He accepted his shield, the surface scorched by deep gouges. His cuirass was blackened and missing many scales, but the drakeskin leather he wore under the chainmail had absorbed the brunt of the heat. Once again, master Wade's work had been worth every sovereign. Too bad it was one of a kind.

Inside and around the stables, the survivors huddled and took refuge from the rain. A few horses neighed, pulling against the reins and the people trying to hold and calm them. Hundreds of feet below them, past a line of trees, Highever City was alive with fires that lit up the night, defying the storm.

Howe had indeed brought more men. Many more. Treacherous bastard. By the river of torches and lanterns growing from the east, it looked like his entire army was closing in, and there were enough mercenaries already in the city to sow chaos and destruction. The bear was ready to sink its jaws into the laurels and uproot it in one fell stroke.

Cormac shook with fury, hard rain pelting him, washing blood and soot from his face. Then his eyes found the harbor and his heart plummeted.

Fire. Fire everywhere. From so far away, the fireballs were like pinpricks of light leaving streaks against a darker backdrop.

Yet, as he looked, one vanished mid-flight. No explosion followed. Then another. And another. And another.

"Kopral Uther!" The harried officer answered on the second call. He'd lost his aventail, or maybe had removed it so as not to suffocate in the tunnel. "Pick the two best horsemen and lead them south. You must find my brother and tell him what has happened here!"

"Yessir, kaptain! What will you do?" The question turned every head, but Cormac didn't budge under the silent, collective request, pushing back desperation he couldn't allow himself to feel.

He pointed, and their eyes followed. "Our soldiers are still fighting at the harbor. We'll punch through this rabble Howe has assembled before he closes the trap on us." He pitched his voice to drown out the storm. "We'll live to fight another day and bring the storm to the traitors! Men, gather up! Any of you who can wield a weapon will have to do so! It'll take all of our strength and skill, but we will carry this day!"

He clasped forearms with his officer after he'd mounted. "The Maker watch over you, kaptain."

"May he watch over us all. Ride with the wind, Uther."

* * *

Pride and fury fed off each other within Cormac as he traversed Highever City with an ever-swelling group of refugees, making a beeline for the harbor. The city and its people weren't bowing to the foreign invader, but they were paying a terrible price for it. For every hardened group of town watch and mob of citizens fighting the mercenaries street to street, a district was awash with the blood of the defenders and the innocent.

Cries, shouts, weeping, and shrieks echoed through the city. The mercenaries raped and pillaged, a roving, disorganized army pouncing on weakness and fighting tooth and nail for their spoils of conquest. Cormac and his men carved a bloody swathe through any that crossed their path, but every fight slowed their advance, drawing Howe's reinforcements ever closer.

Moreover, the peasants and craftsmen who'd taken up arms started to outnumber the trained soldiers and raiders under his command by magnitudes. More accustomed to holding chisels and pitchforks than swords, they were a poor match for the mercenaries. Rabble and criminals they might be, but earning their bread with steel still made them formidable opponents for Cormac's ramshackle militia.

And yet, no matter the losses and the wounded, Cormac persevered. He led the hardy knot of soldiers around him and his family from the front, bowling over any opposition standing in his way with sword and ax.

He didn't know how long it took, but the storm had abated some by the time the harbor was an arrow shot away. In a moment of lull, he thought he caught a glimpse of dawn beyond the leaden dome blanketing the sky.

It was then that the ground started shaking with the beat and squelch of hooves. He only had time to order the elderly and the children in the middle of his column before horsemen burst from the main alley running parallel to the harbor, cutting them off with a wall of sweaty animals, crossbows, and spears at the ready.

One horseman, his armor thicker and of finer make under the mud speckling it, held up a hand to lift his visor as he patted the neck of his beast. The face underneath was young and graced by a thin beard on a weak chin, but the distinctive nose was impossible to miss.

"Hold fire!" Thomas Howe said. "Cormac, lady Eleanor. Order your men to stand down, and you'll be treated as it befits your rank until the truth and extent of your involvement can be ascertained."

Cormac spat, mucus mixed with blood and soot. "What horseshit is this, Thomas?!"

"You stand accused of treachery and collusion with Orlais against the Crown and Ferelden," the youngest Howe said. "Please, Cormac, stand down. You won't be harmed."

"I won't be harmed? Are you for real? Look around you, you dimwit! Your father tried to assassinate my family in our beds! You stand beside criminals and mercenaries. Highever is burning! This isn't the King's justice, this is an invasion!"

"Thomas," his mother said, pushing forward to stand by his side. She waved Cormac away when he tried to interpose between her and the dozen or so crossbows swinging to zero on her. "Since when does an Arl enact justice on his Teyrn? No Landsmeet has been summoned to present these charges you speak of. Mercenaries and butchers don't enforce the King's Law. Let us pass and when I'll speak with the Queen, I'll ask her to show you mercy."

Thomas hesitated, shifting on his saddle and looking away. His men glanced at him and another horseman, this one wearing the chevrons of captain, silently asking for orders.

The captain brought his horse around to Thomas, but the youngest Howe shook his head. The captain grabbed him by the arm then, but Thomas wrenched it free, clouds darkening his face.

"Let them pass, I said!"

The crossbows wavered and lowered an inch, but all the riders turned to the captain for confirmation.

"They don't obey him," Cormac whispered, adjusting his grip on his sword and shuffling his mother back into the protection of the ranks. "Shields up and prepare to charge them on the reload."

"Milord, the orders -"

"Shut it, Chase! All of you, lower your weapons and move aside! Your lord commands it!"

Again, the riders hesitated, then Chase hefted his crossbow. A moment later, the air was alive with the _twangs_ of cables and the _thuds_ of bolts impacting wood and flesh.

Cormac took a step back as three bolts punched into his shield and another almost pierced his armor and chainmail. Chase's sailed over his head instead, but by then he was already running forward, long ax in hand. The war cry erupted from his lips was picked up by dozens of voices.

"Highever! Highever!"

The horses neighed as the riders tried to reload or discarded the crossbows and went for their swords. Thomas shouted to stop, but two of his men grabbed the reins of his horse from him and the captain led him away from the melee, shouting final orders over his shoulder. One swing of Cormac's ax severed the foreleg of a horse and the crazed beast threw its rider into the muck, where he was trampled. The riders stabbed down and the horses kicked, caving skulls and chests in, but in the tight confines of the street and pressed by dozens of armed men, they were either grabbed and unsaddled or wheeled about and rode off.

With the block cleared, the way to the harbor became clear. Hope and relief filled Cormac's heart when he spotted the mast of the _Werewolf_ intact, with more longships swaying with the waves at her sides, and even a few larger merchant vessels.

Further down the docks, however, the _Laurels_ , his father's flagship, was shrouded in a pillar of flames and more ships were nothing but crackling torches. In the eerie light of the fires and lightning, spheres of ice wept and melted where they lay, littering the docks like oversized pebbles. A crowd milled about the intact ships, many of his raiders among them. Most were looking at him now.

"Cormac!"

Alfstanna's shout wiped the hint of a smile on his face, then the blood turned to ice in his veins.

"Mother!"

She lay on the ground, her head in Oriana's lap, a bolt buried to the chest in the right side of her chest. Cormac dropped his ax and rushed to her side. His hands hovered over the bolt, but his thoughts had screeched to a halt. His ears were full of Oren's sobs, Chill's whines, and her gurgling gasps. Her hand reached up to him, trembling, and he took it between his two.

"Cormac - don't..."

"Grandma! Grandma!"

"They're coming!" someone shouted. "The bears are entering the city!"

Cormac let go of his mother's hand and scooped her up as tenderly as he could, bridal style. He felt the tip of the bolt scraping against the inside of his arm. She groaned, her body shaking terribly. Desperation turned his knees into jelly, but he couldn't stop now.

"Everyone, to the ships! Find one the apostates, alive! First officers, assemble your crews and prepare to set sail!"

His words carried louder than the crack of thunder, shaking the crowd into frenzied motion. Civilians stormed the ships, tilting the low vessels dangerously as they rushed to safety, carrying their meager belongings or just the clothes on their back. Raiders and sailors started pulling up anchor and readying the oars and sails, assigning people on the fly to fill the too many vacant rowing seats on the piers.

Cormac, however, was turning this way and that, searching the crowd for a staff or the commotion signaling a captured mage, but found neither. A few servants hang around him, loyalty keeping them close, but otherwise useless. His mother shuddered again in his arms, her breaths wet rasps now, but he found himself unable to look down at her, dreading to see her eyes empty and vacant.

"A healer! Bring me a healer!"

"Cormac -"

He whipped around to face Alfstanna, barking her reaching hand away, "What in the Void are you still doing here? Take Oriana and Oren to the _Werewolf_! My cabin!" Oren whimpered at his tone, but the boy's paleness and tear-filled eyes elicited only anger in him as Oriana scooped him up. Cormac snapped his head to the plank bridge to his flagship. "Kopral Garrick! Find me a Maker-cursed mage! They've set half the ships alight! One must still be around!"

The officer's response was lost when another voice answered in his stead. "They're all dead, or chose the best part of valor. Bunch of amateurs."

The man was tall and muscled, with a head of blond hair tied in a messy ponytail and sharp features covered in soot and blood. Any of that barely registered as Cormac zeroed on thethe tall, honking staff in the man's hands, which he was using as a walking support. "I'm Anders. You can thank me for what remains of your fleet later." He kicked one of the ice balls away and motioned to the ground. "Now put her down and let me see."

Cormac, dreading to believe a miracle in disguise, found himself clutching his mother closer instead. Her complaint almost went unheard.

"Are you -"

Anders chuckled. "A mage? Healer? Unbelievably dashing? Yes, yes, and yes. In league with this posse of thieves and killers? Hell no. I was just searching for a passage to Antiva or Rivain. Now put her down and let. Me. See. Before she bleeds out or chokes to death. It's a matter of minutes now."

His mother's next gasp crumbled his paranoia. He set her down, propping her back up against his knee.

Anders went immediately to work, brow knit in concentration. A blue aura enveloped his hands and he ran them up and down his mother's chest and back, fingers weaving complex patterns with minimal movements. When she slackened against him, Cormac's heartbeat went wild, but her next breath was easier, less ragged.

A minute later, Anders' hands retreated. His face was as foreboding as his words. "I've done all I can without removing the bolt, but I can't do it here. Even then, her chances are slim."

Cormac nodded and made to pick her up again, but renewed battle-cries from the city made him grab one of the servants hovering nearby instead.

"Carry my mother to my ship! Mage -"

"- Anders -"

"- go with her and do your best. You'll be paid, I give you my word." He snapped the votive image of Andraste from his wrist and handed it to him. "Give this to Kopral Garrick or my huscarl and tell them what you need!"

Anders made to protest, but either what he saw over his shoulder or Cormac's glower made him reconsider and accept the small wristband.

Cormac watched his mother be carried through the throng of refugees, the path to the _Werewolf_ cleared by a pair of earnest guards. He turned away from the sight of people plunging into the dark waters in their haste to reach relative safety, back to the main street leading to the harbor.

Howe's banners flew high above a solid mass of soldiers marching down to the docks and splitting off to engage the pillaging mercenaries. What melted the ice gripping his heart in a roaring fire, however, was a single banner in the distance, glimpsed in the light of his burning home.

Twin crowned mabari on a shield of yellow and white. The Royal heraldry of the Theirin, carried in battle only by King Cailan and Maric's Shield.

 _'Thomas wasn't lying. The King must have sanctioned this butchery.'_ And in doing so, he had betrayed the ancient pact between Elethea Cousland and King Calenhad, older than Ferelden itself. The alliance that gave birth to his country was going up in flames with his home now.

Fergus was marching into a trap, he realized with more horror that he thought he could still feel. And here he was, unable to contact his brother and facing down an enemy army.

Any line he could form up to stall Howe's advance would be blown back by the enemy's momentum alone. The men to throw into that grinder were needed on the oars, or dead. Behind him, a few ships were already sliding out of the harbor, rowing against the waves. On one of the foreign carracks, the sailors were pushing back the refugees with oars and arrows, throwing them into the water or onto their fellows attempting to board behind them. Hundreds still pressed on the docks, scrambling for safe passage.

"My Thane!"

Alfstanna and four of his raiders were keeping a path open for him through the crowd trying to board the _Werewolf_ , bashing and pushing back with shields and the pommel of their swords. Her face mirrored the defeat and failure he felt, but dying now would change nothing. The ships were so full, many risked capsizing already. Buying more time would achieve nothing but squandering his life and leave those already on board without a leader.

Cormac turned around and ran for the _Werewolf_. He jumped the plank bridge and helped his men across, then kicked it over before the horde of refugees, no longer held back by his soldiers and more desperate than loyal, could storm it. Their cries and curses rang high and drowned even the fading storm as dawn finally pierced the clouds. Cormac forced himself to burn their faces into his mind, but there were just too many, and then the oars were carrying him past the lighthouse at the harbor's entrance. The _Werewolf_ joined another dozen ships, tilting and swaying up and down with the waves.

For the first time he could remember, the spray of saltwater on his face did nothing to lighten his heart.

"Where to, my Thane?" Alfstanna asked.

He put a hand on her shoulder, trying to reassure her and his enlarged crew with the gesture as much as drawing a sliver of strength from the contact. The adrenaline fumes and the high from the healing draught were receding fast, leaving him exhausted, hot, and stifling in his armor.

Before he'd spotted the royal regalia side by side with Howe's, he'd have turned the fleet east, to Denerim, risking the long trip and Amaranthine's hostile waters to bring news to court and seek assistance. Now, however, the course was set. To the east lay enemies and death. With the ancient alliance in tatters, Cormac felt he could only trust something stronger than any vow and pledge. Blood.

"Pass the word to the other ships. We sail west. To Waking Sea!"

* * *

 _My thanks to **coduss, DmCrebel25, Aegon Blacksteel, KingSlapaDude** , and **PartyPat22** for their reviews, critiques and support. A shout out to all the people who added this story to their favorites and story alerts. _

_Yes, those ice balls on the docks are the fireballs Anders-ex-machina froze solid mid-flight._

 _So, Highever has fallen once more, and Ser Cauthrien's presence may or may not have caused the most disastrous misunderstanding in Ferelden's history, since she was there on royal orders to apprehend Bryce, but Howe had other ideas. We'll see. I just hope I managed to add something more and present the matter in a different way that didn't bore you all to death._

 _Next up: Bethany. Guest star: Toph, on steroids._

 _Don't forget to leave a **review**. Thank you for reading._


	5. 5) Bethany III

**BETHANY**

Dinner was a silent affair around the campfire. Bethany poked at her food, watching with a familiar bemusement how the Commander went for thirds before excusing himself to go and tend to the horses. Bethany's backside and legs stiffened further at the mention of the two animals, Leonie and Torbec, grazing at the edge of the camp, just inside the circle of light. There was only so much healing and restorative magic could do, especially since Duncan insisted to let the blisters reabsorb on their own.

The air was as hot and humid at the northern edges of the Korcari Wilds as she remembered it, this time of the year. Nighttime, at least, brought a slight reprieve from the hordes of bloodsucking mosquitoes eager to get a bite of her, but Bethany still found herself slapping her neck and arms every so often.

Theresa sat opposite to her, hood pulled low on her face. The Commander had given her only half a day to recover and accustom herself to the outside world, before ordering them to ride out. Having never seen a horse to Bethany being somewhat more familiar with the animals, Theresa had been stuck riding behind the Commander, arms coiled around his chest.

It was less than ideal, but the Commander had proven to be as unrelenting in his desire to reach Ostagar as soon as possible as he'd been in conscripting them. The hood shielded Theresa from the wide, terrifying sky as she got used to the onslaught of new smells, sounds, and sights. Progress was slow and none of the subsequent agoraphobic crisis in the past two days had been as bad as the first, but Theresa wouldn't be stargazing anytime soon either.

 _'A shame,'_ she thought bitterly as she glanced up at the clear patch of night sky, wrapping her arms around her knees. Far to the north and further south, clouds had decorated the horizon before sundown, but above them, the moon shone and an infinity of stars twinkled. She didn't realize how much she'd missed it and a hundred other things until they'd stopped being memories and came back as the real thing. 'I wonder if Carver's looking up at them right now.'

"So, how did it go?"

Bethany glanced down at Theresa. She'd tilted her head up enough that her eyes shone at her across the campfire.

She looked away and brought her knees closer to her chest.

"They weren't there."

They'd ridden through Lothering around midday and the Commander had agreed to stop at Dane's Refuge for food, but only after making them don blue and grey wool tabards with the Warden's griffin sewn large on the front and back. To avoid trouble with the smallfolk and the Templars, he had explained redundantly.

Old Barlin had been at his usual spot, peddling wares and haggling on crop shares and seeds over a tankard. He nearly dropped his ale at seeing her, but he'd answered her questions readily enough when he spotted the griffin heraldry. After the laconic revelations, she'd had to see for herself. Hours later, she wished she hadn't.

"The Bann seized the house and the fields the day after the Templars took me away, as per the law," Bethany continued, heat entering her voice. "Kicked mother and Carver out with only the clothes on their back. Barling only knew they took the north road."

"Denerim, then? Maybe South Reach. It's only two or three days away, on foot."

 _'Two or three days without food or coin. Carver could hunt, but mother...'_ Bethany slouched, rubbing her sore eyes. She'd cried when they stopped and Duncan sent her to gather wood, but right now, she only felt empty and disappointed with herself. What had she expected in the first place? That they'd stay, with Father and Damien dead and nobody to bring bread to the table? Father spoke often of how the relatives and friends of mages often turned them in to avoid public condemnation as much as fear for themselves.

Besides, the properties of mages went to the Crown, and the house was in father's name. The steward had rented her home to another family the next year. Now, they were all dead. Killed by a giant monster they'd tried to help. The room she'd shared with her siblings years ago still stank of slaughter and death when she had walked in. Barlin said the next owner would probably burn it down and convert the house's slot to pastures.

Bethany wondered if the people of Lothering thought her family had cursed the place with their magic and how much that accounted for the glares that met her more often than not when she'd been recognized. Barlin hadn't hidden that he thought as much, even if the Commander's presence at their table meant that the old man had worded it carefully and with some tact. In hindsight, a hood like Theresa's would have been a smart idea.

"I think mother would want to go home," she said at last. "Back to Kirkwall, to her family. She wrote to her brother, a few times. I think Carver would like it there."

"I don't remember Kirkwall, but that'd be nice," Theresa said. "Maybe one day we can go visit, you and I? After this Blight business blows over."

Bethany shrugged again and scooted closer to the fire, staring into the flames. Silence widened between them after that, interrupted only by the pops of wood or the odd piece being tossed in to keep the flame alive.

After a while, Bethany started playing with the flame, catching a flickering tongue and rolling it across her palm and the back of her hand. It felt the pleasant kind of warm on her skin, and a surprisingly large part of her enjoyed the newfound freedom to stretch her magical muscles or just play with her gift away, from the watchful gazes of Templars, or just without constantly looking over her shoulder in fear of being reported as an apostate.

Then she remembered the price others paid for her freedom and the giddiness melted away like snow, leaving a desolated flatland behind. She didn't speak to Theresa again that night, fearing that a single word out of place would force them to stare at what lay, festering, at the bottom of the rift running between them.

When her stomach growled, she fed some of her mana into the dimming campfire to heat her stew up again. By then, Theresa had already burrowed under her cloak and an extra blanket. Bethany sighed as she watched her cousin's back rise and fall.

All in all, it was the longest conversation they'd had since leaving the Tower.

* * *

Bethany hadn't expected to find a teacher in Commander Duncan, but she soon realized the man wasn't one to waste time or opportunity, even with the demanding pace he set for the journey.

From setting up a camp to gathering to how to stand watch, the Commander revitalized knowledge the Tower had atrophied or, in Theresa's case, never imparted in the first place. Even as they rode and the blisters on her legs hardened to leathery calluses, he spoke a great deal of the lay of the land, of the significant current events taking place in Ferelden, and of the Grey Wardens' history.

But it was only when they gathered around the cooking fire that he brought out a thumbed bestiary and spoke of the darkspawn and the Taint.

The first lesson left Bethany shaking under her blanket like Theresa after one of her crisis, mind full of the abhorrent pictures inked in great detail on the yellowed paper and of the Commander's words.

Darkspawn didn't eat, drink, rest, or shit. They were like puppets of war and destruction, grown and animated by the Taint. They didn't need to breathe either, or at least not as other races did: the Commander spoke of many an expedition in the Deep Roads ambushed from tunnels choked full of poisonous emissions and gas from the depth of the earth.

They didn't know mercy or emotion. In fact, they didn't possess any emotions. Every single one was a slave to the Taint and the Archdemons' song, a conduit and tool of the ancient Tevene gods' hate for all mortal races and their desire to be freed by their prisons.

Darkspawn saw in the dark better than in daylight, but the sun didn't impede them overly much. Between Blights, they possessed a low cunning and little crafting skills, just enough to churn out enough that every one of them was armed with wicked weapons and crude armor. They had, however, a tendency to capture prisoners for more elaborate crafting and forging. Those poor souls were inevitably tainted and deteriorated into ghouls, slaves of the Taint and the Archdemon's song, until it consumed and killed them.

And so he continued, every night before dinner and every morning after breakfast.

"When an Archdemon rises, they become more dangerous. Some may call them smarter, but in truth, they're guided by the Archdemon's will, one of superior intellect and even greater hate."

The average darkspawn was stronger than the average man or elf, and only slightly inferior to a dwarf. The disparity became just ridiculous when ogres came into play. That strength, and their endless numbers, were what allowed them to overrun and genocide the Dwarven kingdoms in the Deep Roads and almost overwhelm the Tevinter Imperium as well during the First Blight.

The Taint, a product of the ancient Magisters' warped blood magic, also granted the darkspawn an enormous cadre of mages, called emissaries.

"They don't have the versatility or even the raw power of a trained Circle mage, but numbers will always be on their side. Estimates from the Fourth Blight and the Battle of Ashleigh had an emissary every other sixty or so darkspawn. Alphas are about one in forty. They are larger, stronger, and smarter, making them leaders of raids and warbands. I've seen one snap an armored man's spine with its bare hands."

Bethany paled at that, feeling incredibly fragile and unprotected in her traveling clothes. Was she really supposed to hunt, fight, and kill those creatures for a living now?

That day, when Duncan explained the origin of the Taint, Bethany barely managed to look in Theresa's general direction. She hated herself for it, feeling like an ungrateful wretch to the woman who may well be her last relative alive. But Theresa had lied to her. She'd pushed Jowan into surrendering to a desperation demon.

She was a Blood Mage. Unrepentantly so.

How long had she been one without her knowing? Bethany couldn't help but think of all the things and notions on Blood Magic beaten into her brain by her father first and the Circle's tutors later, one of the few times the two sources actually agreed on something.

Blood Magic corrupted people, twisted their minds. It was the product of consorting with demons, learned directly by a demon's lips, or by another Blood Mage. It could manipulate and steal one's will away, often without the victim even realizing. She obsessed over trying to remember whether Theresa had ever had access to her blood, maybe during her monthly courses.

All of it revolved around a single question, one that made her flinch every time Theresa even gestured her way.

Had she ever been manipulated by Theresa's Blood Magic? Her decision to go along with the escape felt like her own, but was it really? Or maybe her cousin had manipulated the Warden Commander into conscripting them in the first place?

The potential answers horrified her, but gratitude entered the equation in the latter's case every time she thought back on Owain's vacant gaze and false, fixed smiles. Besides, the Commander didn't look or act as she figured a blood thrall would, stiff and dull and with his eyes glazed over.

One day's ride from Ostagar, camped only a mile behind the tail end of Teyrn Loghain's supply train, the Commander revealed the origin of the darkspawn's endless numbers and how Broodmothers were created.

* * *

The demons of the Fade threw nightmares at her, visions and smells and sounds of rape and darkness and fleshy tentacles and her own face glued on a colossal, bloated body with hordes of darkspawn marching and tearing out from her womb, wailing like newborns. They encircled her from every direction so as to stop her from awakening before her time, leaving her a curled up ball in her personal, secluded hell, one among the endless islands floating in the Fade.

They outdid each other like never before, exploiting her weakness and fears. They masked their nature behind offers that tempted her with their polar opposite, or just tried to make her waver with impossible fantasies, dripping nectar. They whispered of power to make her untouchable by darkspawn and templars alike; promised of reuniting her family again; of a life of peace, away from the inevitable fate awaiting her at Ostagar with the Wardens.

"Leave her the fuck alone."

Theresa shimmered into existence at her side, smack within the circle of demons, head bare and high and back straight as a plank where, in their waking hours, her line of sight was limited to what was between the rim of her hood and Leonie's mane. And like that, the voices trying to tear her brain and will apart receded to a background, aimless drone, just as the demons retreated to the edge of her island, or vanished.

"Yeah, bugger off, you daft cunts! C'mon, Beth. Don't let these freaks get to you."

She accepted Theresa's hand up, still trying to process how her cousin could be here, in her own dream. The Fade isolated dreamers into their own pocket hell. The barriers between dreamers were unbreakable. For Theresa to be here -

"Nope, not a Somniari. That'd be cool, though," Theresa completed her thought, then frowned. "Hoy, firearse. What part of _bugger off_ didn't you get?"

The largest Rage Demon Bethany could remember slid forward on a trail of fire, a forest of molten arms sprouting from a worm-like body, engorging with every moment on its own umbrage at being interrupted and disparaged. Still reeling and confused, but emboldened by Theresa's presence, Bethany gathered the raw Fade energy around her, willing them to become the coldest maelstrom of ice with a thought.

Nighttime in-your-face clashes with demons, a long-standing Hawke family tradition her father had passed down onto her, were sort of fun and liberating underneath all the gut-wrenching terror. At times, and only in the privacy of her mind, she would even go further and call them therapeutic. This wasn't one such time.

"Wretched, puny humans! I'll enjoy seeing the world through your eyes!"

Bethany willed the ice to envelop the demon and crush its core, but as she could harness the Fade's ether to her side, so could the demon draw endless power from it. Flames and lava melted her ice before it could shatter the demon in a thousand shards, and its rage swelled its body to towering proportions.

"You -!"

"You're new around these parts, huh?" Theresa drawled. One hand reached out, fingers curled one inch away from closing into a fist. "Sucks to be you. Two words, firearse. _Animae Eversio_."

The ether on the island stilled, then the titanic concentration of raw magical energy in the demon's body contorted in every direction, pushing outwards, breaking through its skin and subsequently tearing it apart. It had only the time for a loud, piercing scream before its body disintegrated into bluish wisps and formless blobs raw energy that vanished into thin air a moment later.

"The bigger they are, the louder thy bang. Firearse was a screamer." Theresa chuckled, then flicked the nearest wisp with her finger, sending it careening into another. "Come see me on the other side when you're an abomination. Maybe you'll stand a chance!"

The remaining wisps beat a hasty, bobbing retreat. The other demons had already chosen the best part of valor, as Anders would put it. Bethany just stood there. She took a shuddering breath in the sudden silence, then let out a sigh, trying to relax.

"Thanks," she said at last. "That was... Maker, that was bad. Really bad."

"Very nice of the Commander to drop that shit on us like that, right?" Theresa lowered her voice and pulled a face, mocking Duncan's smooth tones. " _'Every one of those monsters is a bad horse trying to make you its mare.'_ "

Bethany shuddered. "Stop it!"

"Right, sorry." She shook her head, then hugged her sides. "Maker, that shit's all kinds of fucked up. Do you think... Nevermind, it's either the Wardens or the templars. Better than the brand, but... damn."

She could only nod at Theresa's eloquence. It wasn't like they had any other alternatives, though. Theresa's phylactery was in Denerim and she didn't figure the Commander would take well should they dump him and desert. Where would they go, anyway? Kirkwall? Disappear in the woods to be killed and eaten by the Dalish?

And besides, the Commander wouldn't throw them into the thick of the fight right from the start, would he? They were just recruits. Throughout his lessons, Duncan had alluded several times that their induction into the Wardens was still missing some ritual called the Joining, and that they'd know more when the time was right.

"By the way," Bethany said after she forced that line of thought aside, turning to her cousin. Theresa had manifested a lute from thin air and was strumming at the strings, plopped down on a stuffed chair that hadn't been there before. "How is it you're here?"

"I know, rude of me. I should have knocked first."

Bethany crossed her arms under her breasts and arched an eyebrow.

Theresa strummed away idly for another few moments, then the lute vanished with a pop. "Fine. So, huh. It's a trick I picked up from Uldred. He used it to keep the coven secret in the Tower. The same twenty people meeting up time and again in the library or in the mess hall would have drawn a bit too much attention."

"And you can... do it with anyone?" Bethany didn't like the note of fear in her voice. She liked it less when Theresa picked up on it.

"Nope, only with you. Well, any magically-gifted blood relation would do, I think, but that's just you. Uldred can do it with anyone he taught Blood Magic, but I haven't figured out why, and anyway, I ain't gonna teach anyone. Finding his bald arse peeping into your dreams is creepy as fuck. Another thing he learned from that blasted statue-y magister. And of course, with this being the Fade and all, distance doesn't matter a fig."

It took a moment for Bethany to put two and two together. "So he could have contacted Gwyneth or one of the other rebels and already know what happened?"

"Yep. I expect him to have booked it out of Ostagar by now, if Greagoir and Irving didn't make a royal mess of everything as usual, that is." Theresa burrowed further into the plush, padded armchair, then kicked her feet up on a small table that materialized from thin air. "Unless he's learned I spilled the beans and he's lurking around to make me flambé. Ha, a girl can hope. I'm _Mana Clashing_ him into next week, don't worry. Slayer's honor."

Silence spread between them then, echoing with Theresa's chuckles. Bethany looked at her feet, chewing her bottom lip to silence questions that demanded to be asked. She could feel Theresa's eyes on her, waiting, expecting.

At last, her cousin sighed. "You know, I could drag this on and say you should redecorate this place, then you'd pout that not all of us are awesome Spirit Mages and Mage Slayers who didn't make it to Knight Enchantress because the Seekers still have standards, and we'd waste the rest of the night dancing around the issue until the Commander shakes us awake for the morning horror story. Let's not do that, 'right? Just lay it on me." After a long moment, she added, "Please?"

"Why didn't you tell me? About the Blood Magic?" _'Why didn't you trust me?'_

"Because knowing would put you in a shit position, that's why. Force you to choose between me and your own safety." Theresa threw her hands up and forced a chuckle. "And tell you what, anyway? _'Hey, Beth, big news. I'm so fucking scared and lonely and tired of being treated like I'm not even a fucking human being that I broke every stupid taboo in the stupid Circle in the crazy hope that Uldred can change something. Neat, right?'_ " She shook her head, then offered her a wistful half-smile. "But I don't regret it. I'd have never seen the sun, ridden a bloody horse, or walked barefoot on grass. Now I can really see why you missed it all so much. Even if I die to the darkspawn next week, it was worth it."

 _'Was it worth Jowan becoming an abomination? Was it worth all the death?'_ Bethany bit down on those questions hard, knowing the answer already from Theresa's easy dismissal of all her fellow rebels in Uldred's coven. Part of her was genuinely happy for Theresa and her newfound sense of wonder, despite everything. What would she have done in her place? She could empathize with Theresa's frustration and fear, but to become a Blood Mage...

The words tumbled out unbidden before she could stop them. "Have you ever used Blood Magic on me?"

The armchair dispelled into the ether and Theresa plopped down on her arse. Her jaw hung open, eyes wide as saucers.

"You - Do you -" Her voice shook and the ether around them shook with it. So did her hands as they balled into fists, fingers digging into the island's ground. "Do you really think I'd do something that - that _sick_ to you? To the only family I've ever had?! Really, Beth?!"

The sheer hurt in Theresa's voice and the hint of wetness around her eyes was like plunging into icy water mid-winter. Bethany took a step forward as Theresa scrambled to her feet.

"I'm sorry! Please, Theresa, I didn't mean -"

"Didn't you?!" Theresa lashed back, but no concussive hex rushed her way. Only an accusing finger. "You've been thinking about it all this time, haven't you? Maker's holy bollocks, what do you think I am? Blood Magic is only as evil as the use you make of it! I used it to stop your bitchy arse from being branded Tranquil and fucking possessed, and this is the thanks I get?!"

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I never -"

But Theresa had already shimmered out of her dream. When the Commander shook Bethany awake at dawn, her eyes were nearly glued shut by dried tears and her throat sore.

"You were screaming and crying," he said, not unkindly. "I tried to wake you, but you wouldn't come to. Are you alright?"

Theresa was already packing up her meager belongings on the other side of the smoldering campfire, hood so low on her face she could only glimpse her chin. She didn't turn her way or acknowledge her existence in any way as she picked her through the bushes to a nearby pond for her morning absolutions. Bethany didn't find the courage to call after her, shame and pride choking the words out of her in turn.

* * *

Ostagar was as huge as it was dilapidated. High ramparts, eroded gulls, and towers challenged the clouds from the two tall, rocky hills the fortress sat upon, at the southern tip of the Imperial Highway. It was locked in eternal battle with the jungle in every direction, the vegetation alive in its hunger to reclaim the area from the weather-beaten, magically-sculpted stone.

Bethany ground to a halt not ten steps inside the main gate, forcing the Commander to stop his long strides towards the bridge spanning the chasm beneath the fortress. Torbec harrumphed at the sudden pause, but the horse was well broken in and didn't pull at the reins in her hand.

She turned her head left then right, up and around, over her shoulder, trying to put her thoughts into words and failing utterly to find the right words. Everywhere, soldiers marched, set up camp, carried provisions, lead cattle, guided carts, trained, rested, and ate. Tents dotted the ancient fortress like fungi, a growing and aggressive infestations painting the drab stone with a hundred colorful heraldries. Young boys and elves darted around, carrying messages. The air was vibrating with the din of boots on tiles, of swords clashing, of smiths hammering, masons repairing the battlements, and countless dogs barking. The smell of cooking food mixed with the stench of too many bodies pressed together, animal dung and latrines somewhere out of sight, but not out of smell range.

Theresa, huddled in her cloak as if it could keep the rest of the too big world outside, put it her way.

"Maker's shining bollocks, that's a lot of people. I didn't think you could cram so many in one place."

The Commander nodded at that and pulled his horse forward by the reins. "This is the largest army Ferelden has assembled in thirty years. More still are marching to join the King's banner. Come now, it's time to introduce you to the rest of the Order and the other recruits."

The sight from the bridge was heady and sobering at the same time. The Korcari Wilds spanned in every direction as far as the eye could see, a sea of intricate vegetation shrouded in mist. Leafless, dead patches carved it open, blackened by the Taint. Only a few hundred feet away from the fortress, the forest line gave way to a muddy flatland. The stormfront that had been growing closer with every day of their travel southwards now dominated the sky above the Wilds, casting an immense shadow over it.

Looking closer, Bethany spotted thin tongues of smoke drifting up from base of the fortress. They lead her eyes to the large remains of pyres, blanketing the area around them with scattered ashes.

"Has the darkspawn already attacked?" She asked as she caught up with the Commander, trying to ignore all the passing and lingering gazes following Theresa, her and especially their staves. Again, the Commander had ordered them to don their griffin tabards, but those, if anything, only drew even more attention.

"A few large warbands have clashed with the King's forces in the past few days," Duncan said. "Probing attacks by the Archdemon to gauge our defenses, and maybe even lull the army into a false sense of security before a full-on offensive. An Archdemon's intentions are often hard to comprehend, even if their goal is clear."

Across the bridge and into the other half of the fortress, the Commander led them past ballista emplacements and sprawling kennels large enough to house hundreds of mabari. He indicated more sections of the camp as they moved past them. A large square was taken up by smithies, forges, and large tents stacked with supplies and a plethora of guards watching over everything. Sisters and Mothers administered the rites and lead prayers in an open-air Chantry. Not too far from that, the flaming sword of Andraste identified the circle of tents detached to the Circle mages and their templar minders.

Bethany felt the bucket heads' eyes on her even as the crowd and distance hid them from view, then let herself be distracted by the gaudiest pavilion she'd ever seen. Armored men and their mabari hounds stood guard and patrolled the premises, set up against the base of a tall tower. Large banners sporting twin red mabari hung everywhere, leaving little doubt on who resided there.

"I'll ask the King to organize a ranging in the Wilds in the next few days, to scout out the horde and hopefully locate the entrance they dug from the Deep Roads. You two will take part in it. You'll have until then to get used to move and cast spells in armor."

Bethany nearly stumbled and lost the reins. So much for easing them into their new lives into the Order.

"Armor?" Theresa said, eyes flashing. "When can I get some?"

The Commander chuckled. "Soon. Your mentors will take care of that, and more. This way."

Duncan led them to the southern battlements, past the pavilions in the colors the Arls of Denerim and South Reach, the still-being-erected one waving the wyvern of Gwaren, and the Ash Warriors' quarters, swarming with hulking, tattooed berserks and the biggest mabari hounds Bethany had ever seen.

The Grey Wardens' banner flapped above one of the few ancillary structures still standing, a large, two-story construction of stone with a sloped roof of cracked tiles. Cooking fires burned merrily outside, tended to by servants stirring a huge pot despite dinner being a few hours away yet, but no Wardens were in sight. The Commander told her to hand the reins to one of the servants and followed his own advice, then led them around the quarters and to a half-collapsed cloister adjacent to it. The sounds of steel clashing and ringing against steel echoed through the arches, only to peter out and fade as they stepped into earshot.

"Yes, the Commander's back!" a hard voice barked. "Now get back to training! Peace has made you lot lazy and fat!"

"Ease up, Alec. We just want to take a look at the new recruits!"

A chorus of _Ayes_ and cheers followed the statement. When moments later, Bethany walked through the arches of the cloister into what once might have been some noble's private garden, two dozen pairs of eyes were already trained in her direction.

With a start, as the Commander handled their side of the introductions, Bethany realized the eyes fixed on her all belonged to men. Half of them would look at home on some royal poster alerting the smallfolk of dangerous criminals at large. Some probably had, from what the Commander had explained of the Order's recruitment policies. And they all looked at her, or Theresa, more than at their staves. She didn't like many of those looks. She didn't like at all how some of them mouthed the word 'sisters'.

The Commander stepped into the shadow of an intact corridor to converse with his Senior Warden, Alec Ulmarson, a tall man in thick furs, bronze jewelry, chainmail, and quite the impressive beard. Bethany suddenly felt exposed in just her heavy and dusty traveling clothes. Someone whistled, long and deeply.

"Alright, arseholes. Ground rules." Theresa strode forward, lifting the hem of her hood just enough to look squarely at them. She swept her staff in a slow, wide arc. "No wandering eyes and keep your hands to yourselves, or I'll be the one getting all touchy-feely."

Silence met Theresa's claim, then laughter washed over them like thunder. One or two bowed over, clutching their sides. Others snickered, slapping each other's back. Bethany caught a glimpse of a blond Warden approaching quickly from the edge of the cloister, panic flirting with his features.

"Maker, that's precious," a pale Warden chortled, then winked. "We got a feisty one. You got fire and guts to sell, blondie. You'll make a wonderful sister." More laughter erupted.

"Nope, fuckface. She's the one who's got fire and thunder and can turn your dick into a popsicle. Me? I'll just crush your balls into paste with a thought if you so much piss in my general direction."

More silence. Then more laughter. A few of the Wardens threw mock salutes over their shoulders or bowed, then resumed their sparring positions. Soon, much to Bethany's bemusement, most of them had gone back to their business, which consisted in beating the living lights out of each other with a dazzling array of weapons.

She met Theresa's eyes for the first time that day, but her cousin looked as puzzled as she felt, with a sprinkle of wounded pride to boot. Then a nervous chuckle drew her attention. The blonde Warden greeted her a with disarming smile.

"That was a rough start, but they were just yanking your chain. I think." He clapped his hands as if to squash the awkwardness like a bug. "Anyway, why don't we leave everyone genitalia's alone and intact? Isn't that a wonderful idea? I think that's a wonderful idea." He looked between the two of them, searching, then nodded to himself. His smile grew a bit strained. "Has Duncan mentioned me? I'm Alistair. As the second most junior member of the Order, I'll be one of your mentors until you're Joined. Right. Come on then, I'll introduce you to the rest of our private club."

There. He too stressed the word 'join' the same way the Commander had throughout their trip. Her sense of being out of her depth grew more pronounced, but she hurried after Alistair nonetheless - what was it with Wardens and their striding away at the drop of a hat? - throwing quick glances all around her. The Commander and the Senior Warden had disappeared, but the others seemed to pay them little mind now.

It was what little they did that sent a chill down her spine.

Then Alistair admitted, within his next three sentences, that he had been a Templar trainee before being drafted into the Order by Duncan. Theresa, who'd been hounding his every step, the word _armor_ ghosting on her lips, jumped away like a startled cat, then began hissing. Bethany's brittle funny bone almost dubbed it love at first sight, even as Theresa worked herself up to her usual spiel, this time unbridled by the freedom of speech and insult that came with not being caged up in the Circle.

"Touch me and I'll rape your ass!"

Alistair arched an eyebrow. "That'd be a shame. I have a mighty fine ass, if I do say so myself."

Bethany's eyes, as if possessed by a mind of their own, traveled down to confirm that indeed, his wasn't just bluster.

"Not when I'm done with you, no."

"I can smite you and scrub your mouth with soap, you know. Will take all of the quartermaster's supply, but I will do it."

"You can try, choir-boy. Then I'll rape your mouth too."

Alistair sighed dramatically, then turned to Bethany and extended a hand. "My new sister is a vulgar woman. What about you? You come as a couple?" He blinked, smiled self-deprecatingly, and hurried to add, "'Cause she's got enough of a filthy mouth for two."

She was so surprised at Alistair's open, honest gesture, she just stood there, cheeks still warm and staring at the proffered hand. As a rule, Templars only touched mages when ordering and bullying them around. The practice maintained the rift separating the two worlds inhabiting the Tower at all times, guardians and inmates. A single touch could signify many things, or simply throw the first line of a bridge that could make a Templar partial to a mage, and inevitably make their holy task more perilous. That was doubly true with apprentices, considering how about only half emerged from their Harrowing.

Alistair's smile widened. "I don't bite, you know. Didn't even take my first taste of lyrium."

"I'm sorry. Just... Thinking." She took his hand. It was big and covered in calluses from years of training, but he didn't crush hers when he gave a firm shake. "I'm Bethany. Bethany Hawke. The potty mouth is Theresa Amell, my cousin."

"Manners. I think I might cry. Just a little. Alistair, son of nobody important. Pleasure to meet you." Then to Theresa. "See? Was it so difficult, The-re-sa?"

She glowered. "Eat shit and die, choir-boy."

"Ah, I can already say this friendship will be the death of me. And speaking of toxic friendships - Brosca!"

They'd come to a secluded corner of the cloister, pushed up against the base of the battlements. Sentries patrolled above, but Bethany's undivided attention went to the three men circling each other in the thin shadows of the broken arches. Or rather, two were unmistakably men and were ganging up on a shorter, stouter male clad from neck to toe in thick black plate armor decorated with foreign runes and covered in dust.

The arms holding his spiked war hammer were longer than hers, or even Alistair's, almost ape-like. Thick, red braids were gathered in a ponytail reaching past his shoulders, but the rest of his ugly, scarred face was a maze of dark tattoos leaving barely an inch of leathery skin bare.

"See these?" he asked, pointing at the side of his head without taking his eyes away from his two panting opponents. "They be called ears. I can hear ya just fine without ya shoutin'!"

Theresa blinked, jaw slightly gaping. Bethany's clicked shut faster this time around. "Is he -"

Alistair leaned towards Theresa, his whisper a half shout as the fight resumed. "Ugly? Touched in the head? Uncouth?"

"- a dwarf, you imbecile."

"Ouch. That too, right. I always forget." Bethany winced with him as the shaft of Brosca's war hammer struck his lightly armored opponent in the abdomen, nearly picking him off his feet. The man dropped to his knees, gasping, the short blades aimed at the dwarf's kidney clattering from limp hands. "- Aaand I think that's enough for now! Brosca! Stop killing the recruits before the Joining."

"It was just a love tap. His fault for prancin' around naked an' all," Brosca grumbled, leaning onto his war hammer. He flashed them a crooked smile. Small gems and gold filled in for several missing teeth. "C'mon Daveth. You wanna lose face with them females 'fore you even have a chance to start blabberin'?"

"S-screw you," Daveth gasped, bowing in two as the other man, older and precociously balding, heaved him to his feet. "You've broken my ribs!"

"Just a few wee cracks, ya twat. Get in line at the infirmary... unless one of ya sparkle-feet wanna get chummy with our resident master seducer?"

A pained smiled crossed Daveth's pale face and he made an effort to straighten up. "I wouldn't say no, my ladies. The old granny is kinda judgmental and not a tenth as gorgeous as you are."

Bethany closed her eyes at the mention of Wynne, dreading the unavoidable conversation to come. When she opened them again, Theresa was standing between her and the wounded sweet-talker - she'd met a dozen and more men like him in Lothering, a lifetime ago.

"Tune down the charm and wipe that smirk off your face, leech. We aren't buying what you're selling!"

Bethany's hand balled into a fist and she channeled her inner healer voice. "Oh, cut it out for once, Theresa!" She shot her cousin a look as she strode past her. "I can speak for myself. You, Ser. Please help serah Daveth here to remove his armor. I heard those ribs crack from here."

Bethany stubbornly ignored Theresa's wounded surprise and focused on the patient at hand instead, selfishly using the familiar practice to anchor herself in this new, alien, dangerous place. ' _Yep, three ribs cracked and some light muscle damage from overexertion'_. She mended them, pouring a bit of extra regenerative energy into his body and healing some old deep scar tissue along his left deltoid too. To his credit and her masked relief, Daveth didn't flinch away like she was some accursed being - he had asked for her help, after all.

"Feeling better?"

Daveth breathed out and smiled at her, grey eyes twinkling as he rolled his shoulder. "Never better, lady mage. Would you grant me the privilege of knowing your name? I'm afraid I missed it the first time."

She almost rolled her eyes. Almost. "It's Bethany."

"Then thank you, lady Bethany. May I offer you a tour of the fortress in return for your courtesy? Ostagar has some beautiful sights for those who know where to look for."

"Yeah, all waiting behind a bush," Theresa grumbled, glaring daggers.

Daveth certainly didn't waste any time. And yet, even if she knew what his type aimed for and the balding knight's weary sigh spoke louder than a hundred words, Bethany couldn't deny she was a bit flattered. Awkward, sporadic flirting away from her brothers' watchful eye had been another small piece of her life that had remained in Lothering. The Circle's staple was quick, passionate intercourses consumed in hidden alcoves and disused rooms, always looking behind one's shoulder for the templars.

Not that she'd ever partaken in any of that. The risks were just too great and she'd never found the prospect all that encouraging. Templars tended to be extra harsh on those mages who insisted on the pretense that they were normal human beings.

"Alright, alright, that's really enough," Alistair interrupted, beating his sword on his shield to drown out Brosca's howling laughter. "Shut up, Brosca. Time's a-wasting, and we've got much to do. I need to speak with Duncan first, but then we're fitting both of you with something more durable than wool."

Brosca's laugh petered out. "And then we're gonna make proper warriors out of ya. Oh yeah." The dwarf's smile was a vicious thing. "This is gonna be fun. For me."

* * *

Brosca was a sadist, Bethany concluded after the armor-fitting session. The tattooed dwarf kicked up a storm to fit them with scale armor and half-plate at the very least, even going as far as bringing out his coin purse, citing anything less thick and not of dwarven make as, quoting, "light enough a nug can bite through it".

 _'Thank the Maker the quartermaster listened to Alistair instead.'_

Boiled leathers and chainmail, especially when not a perfect fit, were still far heavier and cumbersome than anything she'd ever worn for an extended period of time. The mail clinked with every movement, the weight shifting awkwardly around her shoulders and hips. The leathers chafed around the small of her back and she had to bind her breast to make the chest-piece fit. The iron-shod boots made walking through the film of muck slathering Ostagar's stones in the wake of thousands of soldiers feel like wading through a river.

Early and bright the next morning, after witnessing the horror of each Warden eating a three man's meal for breakfast and asking for more, Brosca pointed at the battlements and simply told Theresa and her to start running. Then he took off after them, heavy plate and all, taunting and insulting them with such lingo to leave even Theresa dumbfounded and blushing.

If her first few days on horseback had been painful, by the end of the first morning, Bethany was adding a few notes to her definition of agony, between gulping down lungfuls of air that just refused to settle in her chest. She wished she could just heal her muscles, but the dwarf only allowed numbing spells for the pain. While very tempting, Bethany knew enough to say that tricking her muscles into overexertion would be more dangerous than simply enduring.

"Well, if this ain't the sorriest display I've ever seen," Brosca decreed, chowing on a chunk of salted mutton. Bethany's stomach growled at the sight. "What do they even teach ya sparkle-feet in that tower? Sewin' an' knittin'? Don't ya have stairs an' all?"

"Less running, more zapping is my guess," Alistair offered, wiping a little sweat from his brow, but otherwise fresh and still smiling after joining into their first torture session for the past two hours. Bethany gave them both a filthy look, though the impact was softened by the locks of hair glued by sweat all over her face. For the next time, she made a point to tie them in a ponytail. Then she let her head hit the tiles and despaired at the inevitable reality that there'd be a next time.

"Oh, look at their faces!" Brosca cackled, pitching his gravelly voice. "Now I know why me drill master in the Legion always smiled. Granted, he had some proper dwarven lasses to get all hot 'n' bothered, but when ya face the Void-sent spawn of doom, ya learn to enjoy every little thingy."

"D-don't call this little, you - arse," Theresa panted. She forced herself to a more dignified sitting position from the sprawl Bethany was shamelessly enjoying, too exhausted to care. As she rose up, however, her hood slipped from her head. Her cousin shut her eyes and blindly groped for the fabric, a task made all the more difficult one-handed and by her trembling fingers. "F-Fuck! Fuckfuckfuck -"

"And that's the next thing on our list," Alistair announced as he lifted the hood on her head. Theresa clutched at it with both hands, eyes screwed shut. "Can't have you freeze up every time the wind bares your head."

"Bite me."

"He won't, lass." Brosca smiled again, then picked Theresa up. She yelped as he threw her over his shoulder. "I will. C'mon, up you go. I went through that dance 'fore you. I'll teach ya it all. Baby steps."

Fury gifted Theresa with renewed vigor, at least vocally. "Put. Me. Down. Now!"

Brosca laughed as they left. "Zap me or I feel anythin' weird tinglin' me balls and I spank you. I'm a dwarf. The Stone protects me from your sparkle-feet tricks."

She watched them go, Theresa's exclamations of indignity punctuated by distant laughter. She thought she heard Brosca curse and Theresa yelp again after a smack like a thunderclap, but that might have been only her wandering imagination. She dwelled on that image playing against her eyelids for a little anyway, chuckling despite herself. The stone she lay on was getting surprisingly comfortable...

"Don't fall asleep on me now, Bethany." Alistair was standing over her, his extended hand half a courtesy and half a command. Bethany groaned as he pulled her to her feet, then steadied her as she swayed. "It'll get easier, don't worry. Well, Brosca won't, he's mad, but the rest will." His wise, knowing words were undermined a moment later by a loud grumble, like a bear stirred from his winter sleep. "Aaand it's time for lunch. Maker, I'm starving."

Bethany blinked, rubbing her own belly. "You already had lunch. Twice. At breakfast."

"Well, _mother_ , Wardens eat a lot. It's in the job description. You'll understand when you're Joined." He licked his lips, eyes distant. "And today there's cheese on the menu. Goat cheese. Yeah, we better grab a bite while the crazy-heads are busy with... whatever Brosca's thought up this time to deal with your cousin's agar - agorepho -"

"Agoraphobia."

"Right. Fear of open spaces. Thanks." He rubbed the back of his head, offering a rueful smile. "Being raised by flying dogs from the Anderfells doesn't make for a wide vocabulary, but they _did_ give me a solid Andrastian education. That's worth something. Ten times better than being a Dead Legionary. Look how Brosca came out!"

Bethany found a smile curling her lips at Alistair's self-deprecation and awkward jokes as they walked to the Wardens' mess hall. He reminded her a little of Damien when they were both younger, even if the two looked nothing alike. If nothing else, the levity was a welcome change of pace from Theresa's abrasive protectiveness, the Commander's distant courtesy, the templars' distrusting silence, or the fearful looks thrown at her when people spotted her staff.

Throughout her slog through the camp, she felt eyes lingering on her, tracking her every movement. Living for years under the constant watch of the Templars had a way of developing a sort of sixth sense to being observed, but for all her looking around, she didn't spot bucket heads or Wynne anywhere. The only odd recurring sight was a Wilder, hooded and in furs, whose outline caught her eye a couple of times, before he vanished into the crowd.

After a while, she just decided to ignore him, pegging him as one of the superstitious Chasind scouts conscripted in the army on their flight north in exchange for protection. There were quite a few of them in a detached camp at the base of the fortress, or so she'd heard. Putting the sensation out of her mind, she laughed instead at Alistair's cawing imitation of the Revered Mother in charge of the monastery he'd grown up in since he was ten.

She was still smiling when, later that day, the Commander asked her to lend a hand to the surgeons and herbalists in the infirmary. The cheer quickly evaporated when she entered the secluded section of camp and heard, then saw, the first soldier contorting and raving on a cot reeking of voided excrements and stale urine. He spat as two more held him down, teeth gnashing as he tried to bite through their gauntlets. His eyes were milky white, his face screwed in hateful lines, most of his skin decayed to show the blackened muscles underneath.

"You! Help us! He's lost his mind!"

A sleep spell knocked the madman out. Then, before she could even ask, before she could do anything, the soldiers strangled the comatose man to death. Later that day, she learned that the practice was meant to avoid spilling Tainted blood and infecting more patients or worse, the few healers, magical and non, with the army. Those soldiers who volunteered for the ugly task when it was too late to administer deathroot extract were paid extra not in coin, but in alcohol.

It was the first time she watched mercy-killing. Less than one hour later, she witnessed the life flee from another patient's grateful, almost-white eyes, drops of the poison dribbling from his cracked lips. Another was strangled half-an-hour later. By sunset, she'd administered deathroot extract twice more.

By the time she stumbled back to the Warden quarters, she felt more like an executioner than a healer.

That night, Bethany too studied first-hand the numbing effects of cider and some clear, foul liquid from Nevarra one of the Wardens passed around the campfire. Then the nightmares came.

* * *

She had never welcomed a morning with a more piercing headache, or with less will to kick her feet off the cot. Outside the canvas acting as a door to Theresa's and her room, the other Wardens were already up, their droning conversation leaning unerringly to breakfast. Some part of Bethany's apathetic brain was thankful to the Commander for allowing them the privacy of a side room. It avoided the awkward and terrifying experience of sleeping with two dozen strangers, most of them huge, smelly, hairy men whose belches and farts traveled by sheer density across the canvas. Most especially since she couldn't begin to tell how much of the general introduction the day before and then the looks, jokes, and straight up innuendo at dinner had indeed been in jest, 'brother' Wardens or not.

As they got ready, Theresa broke the silence, eyes glued on the chainmail in her hands.

"I tried to reach you last night."

"I know." She had felt Theresa's presence just beyond the borders of her dreamscape, but knowing what her cousin could do was apparently enough to keep her out if she wanted to. She had. "I had it all under control."

"You were crying. I could feel them tormenting you."

"I'm fine."

The next few moments were filled with the clinking of steel rings as Bethany slipped the chainmail on and adjusted how the extra weight fell on her shoulders.

Theresa's eyes were on her now. "Want to... talk about it, or something?"

She shook her head, then offered her a weak smile. "No. I'm sorry, Theresa. It's just... you wouldn't understand." How could Theresa empathize with strangers or start to grasp where Bethany's nightmares stemmed from when she callously disregarded Jowan's death or tossed her fellow rebels into the fire without a second thought, blood mages or not? Bethany didn't resent her for that. Not much, at least. It was neither of their faults that their talents had differed in opposite directions.

"You don't have to go back there later. At the infirmary, I mean."

 _'That's exactly it, Theresa.'_ "Yes... Yes, I do."

* * *

Wynne found her two days later at sunset as she dragged herself from burning piles of tainted linens to scouring the grounds of the infirmary with a jet of flame. Between Brosca's training and her hours with the sick, Bethany's whole body was past aching. At this point, she just felt numb. How many people had she killed today alone? Four? Five? It scared her that their faces were already starting to blend together in a single gestalt of milky eyes and decaying flesh.

The older woman stood to one side for a little while, watching her work, her staff leaning in the crook of her elbow. As Bethany single-mindedly continued to ignore her and delay the inevitable, her once mentor sighed. It had only been more than three weeks since they last saw each other, but to Bethany, it felt like months had passed since she had arrived at Ostagar alone.

"I expected you to come visit me sooner, child."

"I'm sorry, I've been busy. I'm a Grey Warden now, and all that."

"The realities of our vocation outside the Circle are harsh and unforgiving, child. I had wanted you to meet and link with a Spirit before you witnessed any of this."

Bethany snorted through her nose, even as she blinked away a stray, treacherous tear.

"What kind of Spirit? Mercy? Faith? Or maybe cold, hard _sovereigns_? A Tranquil can't enter the Fade."

She held Wynne's pained gaze for a long moment, then incinerated another patch of dried, black blood. She winced behind the scarf muffling the foul stench as she recognized that particular one. The militiawoman had been too far gone and savage for any deathroot. She'd come in only the previous day, lamenting persistent nausea and a ringing in her ears.

It was things like that that made her think at night as she lay awake in her cot, slightly drunk and too afraid to fall asleep.

"Why didn't you speak up for me?" She asked at last, putting out the flames. "You knew they'd make me Tranquil. _I_ knew they would."

"I understand your bitterness, my dear, but the Maker's plan follows roads few men can discern. Every man and woman serves a purpose. Even the Tranquil."

"It was part of His plan to make me a cash cow for the Chantry because I can craft runes? Is this His mercy?" Consternation deepened the lines on Wynne's face as Bethany's outburst continued, but with the barrier broken, the words just wouldn't stop rolling out. "Is that all I ever was to you? A pawn in His plan? I thought you cared!"

"I do, child. You were my student. I see so much of me in you at your age, but I've been in the Circle for a long time. I've learned there are battles that, for all the magic and wonders the Maker has granted us, we cannot fight."

"Well, I did!" Flames danced around her hands in a feat of uncontrolled magic. "I fought! I'm here, alive, and no thanks to you, Wynne! You know who risked everything for me, who stopped me when – when I was about to kill myself? Theresa!" Guilt colored her words, but she pushed it aside. She may not see eye to eye with her cousin, but that didn't mean she wasn't grateful to her... did it? "My cousin the _Mage Slayer_."

"And now a Blood Mage," Wynne added, lips a thin and bloodless line. Her wrinkled face had taken up the shade of puce. "I was informed of what transpired at the Tower, my dear. You are free to not believe me, but I'm happy to see the Maker has other plans for you. And yet, I'm very disappointed. You colluded with a Blood Mage. I thought I taught you better. Do you understand what she has become? What she could do to you and everyone else, now that the Wardens protect her?"

Bethany hesitated. Wynne's words echoed her own doubts, but… had Theresa done anything but try to help her, in her overprotective, brash, callous, selfish, and insensitive way, from her first day in the Circle? Had the Blood Magic changed any of that?

"She's my family."

"My dear, your family will always be in the Circle -"

"No. Stop it." The flames turned from red to blue, then flickered out at Bethany felt Wynne's own magic readying up for a fight, and she deflated with an angry sigh. She didn't want to fight her. "Just... stop it. Don't call me "my dear" or "child". You are not my mother. My mother was thrown out on the street with my twin brother after the Chantry you love so much murdered my father and brother! She gave up her own noble lineage and lost everything trying to give me a normal life. Because she cared for me. You only care about yourself."

Wynne turned away and straightened her back. Her staff tapped the scorched, blackened ground of the camp hospital as if to draw a line.

"Very well, Bethany. I - I can respect your choice." Any lingering warmth had fled her voice. When Wynne turned to look at her over her shoulder, Bethany flinched at the flint in those eyes. "Please tell Amell that Uldred managed to slip away before the Circle could inform us. I'm sure she will be overjoyed to hear of her master's apostasy."

Without another word, Wynne disappeared beyond the tents dotting the field hospital. To Bethany, it felt like her former teacher was walking out of her life, washing her hands of an unruly apprentice. She sniffled once and wiped her eyes, then turned to the next tainted site and let her flames burn blue.

It was dark when she ventured out of the infirmary, letting her feet guide her blindly. She bumped into a messenger elf, then into the Maker-cursed Chasind that had been her distant shadow for the past few days. He shoved him away when she felt his hands steadying her, almost lashing out with her magic.

"Bethany -"

"Go bother someone else!"

The ringing in her hears drowned anything else the Chasind had to say. She quickened her step, breaking into a jog. Dinner time was long past when she navigated her way back to the Warden's quarters. Alistair shot her a concerned look and veered in her direction from the gaggle joking and drinking around a campfire, but Bethany disappeared inside the two-story house before he could catch up to her. He was funny and witty, but she didn't need funny and witty now.

She found Theresa lying in her cot, reading in the light of a candle.

"Beth?" She asked uncertainly as she propped herself up on one elbow.

"I'm sorry." Bethany plopped down beside her cousin and hugged her, burying her soot-streaked face into the shorter woman's shoulder. Theresa froze. "I'm sorry I - I treated you like shit. I'm sorry I j-judged you and behaved like - like a bitch, when all you did was h-help me. You're a brat and y-you m-make me m-m-mad and s-scare me s-sometimes, but you s-saved my life. I'm sorry. I'm s-so s-sorry!"

Slowly, Theresa's arms closed around her shoulders, giving her light, awkward taps. "Hey, it's alright. Shshshsh, it's alright. Just - stop cussing. That's kind of my thing. People will start to mistake you for me."

Bethany chuckled between the slobbering tears, then sniffled. "It's just... Y-you're the only family I've left."

Theresa remained silent for a long time. When she eventually spoke, Bethany's tears had dried and wax pooled around the stump of the candle.

"That's my line, bumpkin... Anyone ever told you you cry like a sourly drunk?"

* * *

 _So, the Mana Clash aka Animae Eversio abuse is a thing. I mean, that spell is so broken in game, the in-story equivalent ought to be an asset as rare as it is powerful... and one the Chantry and its Seekers tend to search for in the few mages they recruit to serve in their ranks. As it is, only mages with a very high affinity for the Spirit School (aka manipulating the raw Fade energies\ ether\ mana) like Theresa can learn and use it to any degree of effectiveness. That focus tends to make them one-trick ponies, as the spell, while terrifying against mages, is useless on Templars. It also explains why Amell's Harrowing was so quick, Blood Magic or no Blood Magic, both in the game and in this story. As for the Knight-Enchanter mention, I'm mixing and combining pieces of lore here and there to try and fix some of Inquisition's bullshit. Namely, Knight-Enchanters (aka discount Arcane Warriors) are Spirit Mages recruited and indoctrinated into the Seekers, like Cassandra's buddy-lover in the books. Theresa would have been one too, if not for… issues, but this whole business is at her core of her character and 'personality'. Growing up and being taught most of your life how to kill everyone who could be your friend or in any way close to you, only to be discarded because judged ultimately unfit for that very role, can't have any repercussions on someone's psyche, right?_

 _On an unrelated note, Branka. The notion that the nutter was made Paragon because she invented a smokeless coal when the whole city of Orzammar is built onto a lava bed (read, nigh-infinite energy, and they have runes and fantasy building knowhow to compensate for technical issues, like the flesh-melting heat) and the Deep Roads use lava for something as quaint as lanterns, is either ludicrous, ridiculous bullshit, or ham-fisted political maneuvering that bit the Assembly in the ass royally. Also, lyrium. The very existence of the lyrium explosives in Awakening proves that the stuff does have, drums beat, explosive properties. Ten internet cookies to all of you who'll put two and two together and figure out what the Crazy Wife was Paragon for this time around._

 _Next Up: Ser Cauthrien and either Cormac or Oriana. We'll see._

 _My thanks to_ _ **KingSlapaDude, DmCrebel25, Rinnala Llethan, Vampirelord 101, Aegon Blacksteel**_ _for their reviews and feedback. Thank you all for reading this admittedly slower chapter. Don't forget to leave a_ _ **review**_ _, or Brosca will find you and spank you._


	6. 6) Cauthrien - Cormac IV

**SER CAUTHRIEN**

She had grown up on a farm, surrounded by animals. Her eight summer had just ended when her father had her assist him in butchering the pigs. Even after years under Teyrn Loghain's tutelage, her knightly investiture, and being acknowledged as the Sword of Gwaren, she still remembered the sickening crack of the hammer her father used to stun them against bone and their screeches as they bled out.

For the briefest of moments, as she stepped into the noble apartments of Castle Cousland, Ser Cauthrien was eight again, holding the bloodied knife close to her chest and trying not to close her eyes to avoid making her father mad. The moment passed, but the sight before her didn't.

"Maker's breath," Sergeant Ervine muttered. Another soldier sent a quick prayer to the Maker.

Cauthrien observed the carnage with a trained eye, taking in the scene with a single glance. Arl Howe's men were lining up the bodies of the murdered nobles and their servants along one side of the hall. Amaranthine's dead were lined up in an even longer line along the other wall. The corpses wearing Highever colors were amassed in a corner, thrown in heaps without regard.

"Ervine, I want a list of the dead by the time I'm finished with the Arl. Search their belongings." She'd send the list to Teyrn Loghain with the long missive she was already composing in her head, already steeling herself for her lord's reaction.

She had failed her lord. Utterly, completely failed him, for the first time since she entered his service.

She marched past the gaping apartments, passing around pools of dried blood and into the Couslands' family quarters. More signs of battle littered every step of the way, yet all bodies had been removed already. All, but one. Arl Howe waited for her in the Teyrn's chambers with a few guards and a scribe sitting at the only desk in the room, pouring over a blackened ledger.

Bryce Cousland hadn't died a painless death. His pale, waxen face was screwed in agony, undoubtedly from the many wounds tearing into his chest and belly. It appeared nobody had touched him, leaving him where he fell, twisted in death, ancestral armor on and a bloodied sword nearby.

Here lay the man who'd almost become King of Ferelden, Cauthrien thought bitterly.

Howe looked up from his read. "Ser Cauthrien. Kind of you to join us here."

Cauthrien dipped her head in deference to the rank, not the man. "Arl Howe," she greeted him in a clipped tone, not rising to the provocation. The nobleman's garmnets were spotless, save for his boots. In the chaos of the past few hours, somehow he'd found the time and place to make himself presentable. Outside the double door leading onto a balcony, smoke still rose from too many fires, barely quelled. "What happened here?"

"My old friend was preparing to give Ferelden to the Empress on a silver platter, ser," Howe spat, words dripping venom. He glared in disgust at the corpse. "After Fergus departed, he asked me to join him in this madness, promising to make me Chancellor of the Realm once he was made Viceroy of Ferelden. In his plans, my forces would hold the North, securing Highever and Amaranthine for the Orlesian fleet, while his army of mercenaries struck at Gherlen Pass and opened the fortress to the Empress' reinforcements. They'd have started marching as soon as my forces arrived."

Cauthrien kept her face impassible. "Teyrn Loghain's orders were clear, my lord. You should have waited for me." She was of a height with the Arl and she was careful to keep her tone respectful but firm as she held his smoldering stare. Inside, however, she was bristling. "Now Teyrn Cousland is dead and cannot answer his charges. The families of a dozen and more banns, slaughtered. The remaining Cousland are fleeing west, to join up with Jarl Elderath." _'Or worse, with Orlais.'_

Best case scenario, the largest and most experienced fleet in Ferelden would be on the warpath within a week. Worst case? The Couslands would ask for safe harbor in Val Royeaux. Their claims of an unprovoked attack, their prestige, and Calenhad's blood running in the family would give the Empress more than a valid cause to declare war on Ferelden before the rest of Thedas. Just as Teyrn Loghain was south dealing with the darkspawn and, possibly, the King's own betrayal of Ferelden.

"You weren't here, ser," Howe said. "If I hadn't acted, Bryce would have escaped with plenty of noble hostages in tow, beyond our reach and free to attack the Pass at his leisure. Immediate action was necessary."

"Queen Anora's command was to take Teyrn Cousland into custody, my lord. Not kill him and drive his family to the sea."

"And I will answer to the King and the Queen for my actions, ser. Not to you." Howe's eyes narrowed.

Her common airs, in combination with her rank and the Summer Sword on her back probably nagged the Arl. He wasn't the first and he wouldn't be the last. Most of the old blood nobility was a skittish, prickly bunch, creatures of habit and assumption, she'd found out in her years serving under Teyrn Loghain. "I'm already compiling an exhaustive list of evidence on Bryce's schemes, to present to the King, Queen, and Teyrn Loghain. The noble blood staining these rooms should be enough for you, ser. Bryce had his soldiers slaughter the guests when he realized he was cut out from the escape tunnels. He murdered his vassals to weaken Ferelden's hold on these lands and to buy his family time to flee, to Orlais no doubt. My men are rounding up and interrogating the surviving servants and soldiers."

Cauthrien studied the Arl, parsing through his words. A missive to Teyrn Loghain, a known and bitter rival of the Couslands ever since the failed election, breathed of an offer of alliance, or at least support of his actions. Yet even with Gwaren's, and thus the army's support, Arl Howe would still have a hard case to present to the Landsmeet. The nobles would be incensed at the death of their kin and peers, but Bryce Cousland had been extremely popular, the leader of the largest voting bloc in the Landsmeet. Many would be more prone to blame and condemn Howe for his death, however solid the evidence of treachery he may present before the assembly.

"I'll be present to those interrogations and question the witnesses, my lord. All of them. And I'd like to see your proof myself for my own report." The Arl pursed his lips but acquiesced with a nod. The Queen's sigil on her orders gave her that much authority, at least.

Cauthrien herself was leaning in the direction of Howe's bad judgment after hearing out the mercenary captains that switched sides from Cousland to Howe shortly before the attack. They all claimed ignorance on Teyrn Cousland's intentions, saying they believed they had been hired to fight the Blight. They praised Arl Howe's judgment in riding out in the middle of the night to reveal the truth and were thankful to not have become traitors to Ferelden. As the Blackstone Irregulars and the Crimson Oars were both Ferelden-born companies, led by Fereldans, Cauthrien gave their pledges of loyalty to the crown and claims the benefit of the doubt. Mercenaries were only loyal to their pockets, but the scars of the Occupation ran deep.

The leader of the White Falcons, a Marcher by the name of Cristof, was blunter, shameless as only mercenaries could be. "Arl Howe offered me more coin than Cousland, ser. And I don't work with apostates."

That was another headache by itself. Revered Mother of Highever and her templars had learned of apostate involvement with the mercenaries and Cousland before Cauthrien herself had. Even as the Chantry was swarmed with the homeless, the hungry, and the wounded, Cauthrien received word of templars searching the city for the rogue mages. One was actually found alive, hiding in a cellar. The templars dragged him to the Chantry, where he was publicly executed before her men could get on the scene. The Revered Mother categorically refused to share any information the apostate may or may not have revealed under interrogation.

"Concern yourself with matters of the Crown, ser," she told Cauthrien on the Chantry's threshold when she marched down from the castle that very evening. "The Chantry will carry out the Maker's will and see to his flock. A good day to you."

The Maker's will apparently didn't cover assigning her holy warriors into helping the hundreds of people who'd lost their homes in the fires conjured by the mages they were singularly tasked to guard, hunt, and apprehend. Cauthrien kept her silence, however: the Chantry's granaries were among the few to escape the fires or the pillage unscathed and were currently feeding a large chunk of the population, fending off the threat of famine. How long that would go on, however, was anyone's guess.

Speaking of pillage, Cauthrien was adamant with all three mercenary leaders: all the loot acquired from sacking the town and castle in the frenzy of the battle was to be returned within two days. Any complaints they had were passed on to Arl Howe: as the man had got them involved and caused this mess in the first place, then he'd pay them with Amaranthine's gold.

She'd be surprised if half the loot was returned, if that much, but anything that was recovered was for the Crown to make use of. Hopefully, to buy food from the Bannorn and help the city recover. Commoners and peasants, in Cauthrien's experience, were rarely involved in their lord's machinations. Victims, more often than not.

Meanwhile, she ordered the mercenaries out of Highever City and detached most of her forces to keep the law and order in the city, repurposing Maric Shield's soldiers into a sort of city watch, as per the Teyrn's original instructions. To the side, she had a few capable men investigate any claim of murder and rape in the city and try to individuate and apprehend the criminals. In the absence of a Cousland to hold court, Cauthrien quickly ordered juries of twelve free men beyond repute formed, her own soldiers tasked with fact-finding among them.

By the second day, nearly a dozen mercenaries swayed in the northern breeze, strung up in the market square and left to rot as a warning. Thieves lost a hand. The few identified murderers, their heads. More yet were given a thrashing, flogged, or fined for all of their belongings but the skin on their back and told to start walking south. In one case, a victim of rape asked for marriage as compensation, as was her legal right.

Nobody was imprisoned. There simply weren't enough resources to feed extra, inactive mouths.

When she felt the weight of the task ahead pressing down on her as her report thickened with more and more sheaves of vellum, she watched the gallows. The sight, rather than disgust her, gave her heart. Orlesians might condone the rape of commoners in war and went wild during the Liberation, but Ferelden wasn't Orlais. They weren't animals.

At least, the Revered Mother kept her word when it came to funerary services. Smoke, the stench of burning flesh and sacred oils, and the select verses of the Chant filled the air day and night as the debris from a large number of destroyed buildings was repurposed into mass funerary pyres. Over three hundred had perished in a single night, with Castle Cousland's inhabitants dead nearly to a man. Teyrna Eleanor's rose gardens, already defiled by death and combat, were repurposed to accommodate the rites for those who'd perished within those walls, nobles and commoners both. The Revered Mother took the climb to administer the rites herself, accompanied by a few Sisters and templars.

As was their prerogative, the nobles were given to the flames in single pyres. Cauthrien ordered their ashes gathered in urns and pots, to be labeled and delivered to their families at a later time. Howe's soldiers and the dead mercenaries who stormed the Castle were burned in two large pyres that had to be relit twice for the corpses to be consumed completely.

And then things got even more ugly.

"He's a traitor!" Howe snarled, waving his bundle of incriminating letters and pointing at the blackened ledger, one of the few items that were recovered from Teyrn Cousland's office before the fires consumed them and the whole castle library. Cauthrien and the Arl were squaring off in the late Teyrn's quarters. Howe had had servants clean up the rooms and then appropriated them as befitting of his rank. "He paid for his prestige with Orlesian gold. He doesn't deserve the rites or an honorable rest!"

"That is not for you to decide, my lord. Until the Landsmeet rules it, Teyrn Cousland remains a high noble of Ferelden, even in death. You will _not_ throw his body and his retainers' in a midden to rot. That's what Orlesians do."

"An Orlesian treatment for Orlesian dogs. Have you forgotten what you heard from his servants and guards.? They all knew. Cormac nearly killed my own son Thomas when the boy foolishly offered him another chance to surrender at the docks." Howe made to storm past her. "This will send a message. Stand aside, ser."

Cauthrien hesitated. Howe had indeed brought forward a few servants and guards in Cousland colors after she interrogated the mercenary captains. All of them, with different levels of detail and after a bit of prompting, ultimately confessed that they'd heard something of Teyrn Cousland's plans. Most of it was second, or third-hand. Some said Fergus Cousland had bragged openly on one occasion of his future standing as Prince of Ferelden. One even admitted that she'd heard the Teyrn and Teyrna speak of an Orlesian marriage offer for Cormac Cousland.

All in all, their words were inconclusive, and many in the Landsmeet would outright dismiss them, even if a number of Cousland's more elderly supporters in the assembly, unfit to ride to war but still tempted by the feasts, had found their death in the castle.

More weight before the Landsmeet – and, she added as she considered the woman's pretty face and full figure, the King - than any servant's tale would carry the testimony of Lady Sophie Freybus of West Hill. The young widow of some knight who had died in the service of Highever the previous year, she'd been the only survivor found by Arl Howe's men in the quarters reserved to the minor nobility; once rested, she proceeded to regale Cauthrien with a stuttering but clear story: Highever guardsmen had barged into the rooms shortly after Arl Howe attempted to seize the castle, putting everyone they found to the sword.

The picture painted by the combined testimonies, together with the ledger confirming the gold transactions between the Couslands and the mercenaries, was overall believable, if distressing, but it smelled of a sloppiness that Cauthrien was hard pressed to attribute to a seasoned player like Teyrn Cousland.

Someone who had nearly won the throne of Ferelden by charisma and prestige alone against a direct heir of King Maric the Savior ought to know how to keep his secrets. Cauthrien also suspected Couldry had his own people within Highever's walls, though Teyrn Loghain never involved her directly in those dealings. But still, elves were in every noble household and mostly invisible to nobles' eyes, unless their name was Vaughn Kendalls. Why hadn't her lord got wind from his spymaster before Howe presented the incriminating letters, then?

Howe was waiting for the right of way. It'd be demeaning for an Arl to circle around a mere knight, no matter her rank in Maric's Shield or the powers she was invested with as Queen Anora's delegate. Annoyance deepened the scowl on his face.

"No, my lord. Teyrn Cousland will receive the proper rites, as custom dictates. So will his retainers."

"You are forgetting your place and who you're talking to, _ser_!" Howe thundered. "I am Arl of Amaranthine, the highest ranking noble here. In the absence of law or royal decree, my orders stand. And if I say that filthy traitor will rot into a midden, then by the Maker he will! Now draw your sword or stand aside."

Cauthrien's hand almost, almost reached for the hilt of the Summer Sword, but it was only a moment's impulse. To strike an Arl, a high noble, whatever her titles, would be madness and only put her lord, the Queen, her men, and the people of Highever into more needless trouble.

She reached for the door instead and pulled it open, but didn't step aside.

"Then speaking of royal decrees, with all due respect my lord, Teyrn Loghain commanded you to march down to Ostagar as soon as Teyrn Cousland was apprehended. And the Teyrn speaks with the King's authority in the matter of this Blight." A childish part of her secretly enjoyed the shade of outrage coloring Arl Howe's face, briefly-lived as it was. "You're already three days late, my lord. Don't worry, Highever is in capable hands."

"It is," the Arl agreed. Red flags went up too late in Cauthrien's mind. "Mine. The situation has clearly evolved beyond Teyrn Loghain and the King's plans. With fair weather, Cormac's ships could be in Val Royeaux in less than two weeks. An invading fleet may appear on the horizon within a month. My forces are needed here, ser, and here they will stay for the time being. Or do you think your hundred soldiers can hold the city on their own? Highever doesn't have Amaranthine's walls, and the holds in the West are teeming with traitors. When Orlais strikes, they'll strike here first."

The Arl smiled then, thin and condescending and utterly superior. "But don't worry, ser, I'm a loyal servant of Ferelden. I will never shirk my duties to the Crown. In fact, I'll leave my son Thomas here with you and ride for Denerim to present my case and witnesses to fair Queen Anora in a few days. I'm sure she will see the truth you refuse to accept, ser. But first, I have a traitor to bury. Now leave."

The treasonous urge to unsheathe the Summer Sword and cut Arl Howe right there where he stood returned, maddeningly powerful and insistent, for one heady moment. Cauthrien's fingers twitched, then she nodded in begrudging deference of his rank and strode out, trying to ignore the sudden certainty that she'd just made a huge mistake. One she and other would pay for in the days to come.

She made it to her quarters, and quickly finished her double report, adding several lines on Howe's intransigence regarding the Bryce Cousland's funeral, then impressed her signet ring into the hot wax. Half an hour later, two of her soldiers were riding hard out of Highever. Soon, one would continue west and then south, to Ostagar, while the other would turn her horse east on the North Road, making for Denerim.

Her reports would warn Queen Anora and Teyrn Loghain, hopefully giving them both enough time to prepare. Meanwhile, as she waited for new orders, she'd continue to do her duty as a knight of Gwaren: serve the Crown and protect the people.

As she marched up the slope back to the castle, she saw Howe's men walk out of the gate, carrying naked bodies between them in a procession. Her gut twisted in disgust. Once the Arl rode out, she promised herself she'd put the pressure on the man's son. Maybe the young man could be made to see reason before word got out to the rest of Highever's vassals on the treatment of their dead Teyrn?

The last thing Ferelden needed now was for the North to rise up in outrage due to a single man's petty spite.

 **CORMAC**

"I did all I could. The rest is up to her now. Your mother is a very strong woman."

Cormac acknowledged the healer's words for what they were: a neutral, guarded defense, an offering of hope to get out of the heat. His eyes didn't leave Eleanor's still face and the oh-so weak rise and fall of her chest in the candlelight. He suspected the answer even before he spoke, but right there and then, he couldn't help but cling to that morsel of hope Anders had thrown his way.

"Can you tell me when she'll wake up?"

The healer sighed and raked a hand through his messy blond hair, straightening his ponytail. Exhaustion weighed deeply on his shoulders and under his eyes as he leaned on his staff. Cormac knew he'd barely caught any sleep in the past two days and was grateful for the effort, but a part of him wished he could have done more.

"In all honesty, I can't assure you she ever will. Her heart stopped twice as I removed the bolt." Anders tried to soften the blow and Cormac was prepared, but it still hurt. It was a terrible effort not to crush her hand between his in that moment. "I'm sure I prevented any lasting damage to the brain, but the blood loss alone was almost too much for her. Right now, her body is in a precarious, fragile balance, one I can only help protract. I don't dare to put her system under more stress by forcing it to heal faster. Not yet, anyway."

Her hand was cold against his palms, despite the blazing hearth and the warm furs cocooning her. No color had returned to her face. But she was breathing. That had to amount to something.

"You have my thanks, Anders," Cormac managed eventually, as he felt the mage start to fidget. "My family owes you a great debt. The Jarl has had a bunk prepared for you. We'll discuss your reward later. The servant will show you the way."

The healer hesitated, eyeing the door like it might spontaneously combust any moment. "Any chance I'll wake up to find templars leering at me? A mob with pitchforks, stones, and torches? That one never gets old."

Cormac glared, but Anders held it. His strained smile didn't even get close to his eyes.

"The Chantry has little influence here and even less power," he bit out. "We don't go back on our word. Now go."

Anders beat a hasty retreat, leaving Cormac alone with his mother. He sighed. The apostate had been a Maker-send gift and probably didn't deserve to get his head bit off as a proxy, but Cormac was singularly unable to give a damn about the man's worries at the moment. He rubbed a thumb across the back of her hand. To think only days ago, he'd been so frustrated at her and her blatant attempts at matchmaking.

Whispers wafted inside as the door closed behind Anders, colored by the strong accent of the Waking Sea isles. It could be a runner from the Jarl, or the women assigned to attend his mother, or both. The Maker knew there were a hundred and one problems requiring his attention, waiting just outside that door.

It had been two days and one night of rough, slow sailing before his ships, overflowing and burdened almost beyond capacity by hundreds of refugees, put down anchor before sunset at Jelling, Jarl Elderath's seat in the Waking Sea Hold. His people were scared, wounded, and hungry. What little provisions were taken on board were far from enough to feed all of them. They needed food, shelter, and a leader.

He should really stand up and get going, but at the same time, he was unable to let go of his mother's hand. Every time he tried, a crippling fear struck him, that she'd stop breathing as soon as he so much glimpsed in another direction, that she'd go up to stand by the Maker's side, and his father's.

If only that _bloody_ healer -

The hushed whispers and his thoughts quietened as the door cracked open again, draining some of the heat from the room. In came two sets of steps, one soft, the other heavy, both weary and measured.

Cormac nodded in lieu of a greeting when Oriana pulled a chair beside his and cupped his and his mother's hands between hers.

"Go get some rest," she whispered softly, as if speaking to Oren, "I'll watch over her and send someone to call you if she wakes up."

 _'Or if she doesn't,'_ Cormac heard clearly left unsaid. "Oren?"

Her lips quirked into a tired but honest smile. "He's sleeping in the next room with Chill. The healer gave him a draught against the nightmares."

"Good. He's a good boy. You should be with him."

"Cormac, you're rambling. You can barely sit up straight. Take a bath and then go to bed." Long moments passed. Cormac sat shock still as if carved out of the same stone around them. Then another hand found his shoulder, squeezing it. Even though the layers of chainmail and armor, a faint heat seeped through to his skin. Cormac sighed, giving in to the silent request. As if trying to pry open a safe box with an iron bar, his hands let go and Oriana's took their place.

Alfstanna coaxed him out the chair and then the room. She steered him by touch alone, steadying and guiding him in the same motion, her other hand holding a small lantern. Their destination was close by, just down the corridor. Every step brought back memories and details from his fostering years. He'd been a child once, running through this very corridor with Alfstanna, Jenna, and the other kids, hiding behind the many wall hangings and tapestries detailing the past deeds of long-dead Jarls, up to the days of Andraste's Exalted March on the Imperium.

Down the corridor she led him, though his feet still remembered the way, then into a separate changing room. The air was warm, heat seeping through the door to the nearby sauna. Nodding along as his head spun a little, Cormac started to remove his armor, but Alfstanna slapped his hands away and gave him a look. He relented and she started to undo buckles and remove the layers of grimy, blood-soaked armor off him, arranging them on a nearby bench.

Once he was naked, he trudged through the door and was hit fully by a blast of stifling heat that made him both dizzy and drowsy at the same time. A servant was placing glowing-hot stones in the center of the stone pool, while another poured buckets of scalding water through a hole in the low roof. Answering their bows with a distracted nod, Cormac stepped into the water and sat down on one of the submerged benches, sighing despite himself as the tension melted off his muscles. He just sat there for a long minute, rolling his shoulders and enjoying the heat, then reached out for a bar of soap and a brush.

The water lapped against his side as Alfstanna sunk into the pool, naked and just as grimy as he was. Without a word, she started on her hair, submerging fully before the water became too dirty. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a servant girl disappear into the changing room, but his huscarl answered his question even before he voiced it.

"She'll take only the cuirass and your shield to the smithy. It's no Master Wade, but they need repairs."

"Thank you."

Alfstanna shrugged it off. Cormac stopped bathing at that; he put a hand on her shoulder and waited for her to meet his eyes. She needed to understand this. He needed her to.

"Not for the armor. For protecting Oren and Oriana." He swallowed the knot of dread trying to form in his throat. "If you hadn't been there -"

She brushed her hand on his, just a brief touch. "But I was. I was there. They're safe."

After a moment, Cormac nodded, and they returned to peeling off the caked grime. Once he finished removing it off every inch of his body within reach, he turned around, presenting his back to Alfstanna. She scooped up some water with a bucket and poured it over his head and down his back with a ladle, then brought soap and scrub to bear like a sword and shield.

Cormac winced, but it was more due to the familiar tension building between his legs than pain. It had been a long while since they actually shared a sauna. Their last visit to Waking Sea, if he recalled correctly, and that was a group one. He'd never come around with his father to build one at Highever.

Cormac let out a drawn-out breath and blinked away some sweat, pushing away both painful avenues of thought despite their different form of insistence.

"What were you discussing with Oriana in the middle of the night, anyway?"

The scrubbing didn't cease, her attack steady and unforgiving. She'd been expecting the question, of course. It made the brief silence before her answer all the more poignant.

"Just women talk. The kind that'd make your ears bleed."

When she patted his shoulder to announce she had finished, Cormac offered her the same courtesy she'd done him. Alfstanna's back was broad and firm with muscles sculpted by years of training and combat, but her skin was soft under his fingertips, and the scrubbing left it pink and raw. A faint scar curled around the underside of her left shoulder blade, the leftover of a shallow wound left by the lucky strike of a smuggler. She sighed and leaned into him almost imperceptibly when he trailed a finger over it. Cormac had to shake himself away from sweet, treacherous thoughts.

By then, thank the Maker, the water had cooled down considerably. It helped him take his mind out of the gutter. When they stepped out and rinsed off, clean linens and heavier clothes had already been arranged for them in the changing room. The moment he left the changing room, the weight of the past two days' events crashed onto him again. He glanced in the direction of his mother's room, but the door was still closed. No servant was rushing towards him with pity written on their faces.

"You should rest too," he told her around an unseemly yawn when her guiding hand squeezed his shoulder.

"You ordered me to catch a few hours yesterday. I can manage another few minutes, but I don't trust you not to fall asleep on your face before you get to your room."

"Respect, huscarl."

He heard the smile in her voice, even if he didn't see it. "Yes, my Thane."

His rooms hadn't changed a bit from how he remembered it from his fosterling years, and again on his last visit. The thick rug's corners were still frayed from when his mabari Jenna used them as a chew toy, years prior. Only the wax candles were new and burning with a careless merriment Cormac envied them.

Alfstanna lingered on the threshold as Cormac took in the room around himself, or at least tried to. Maybe it was the bath, maybe it was the absolute madness of the last two days, but he was aware of her presence like he hadn't been in a long time. His long-practiced mental checks and stops, honed and trained for years to the benefit of their own sanity, were failing him.

He wanted her to stay, and not as huscarl and Thane. He wanted to take her to bed, sink into the furs together and continue what they'd started that night when they were fifteen and drunk, but that alcohol and the Maker's intervention had stopped. He wanted to forget who he was and who she was, if only for one night, and just be.

It was an impossible fantasy. Neither of them could deny who they were. Cormac would have married her long ago, but he was a Cousland of Highever, and she, by the rest of Ferelden's standards, only the natural daughter of the Jarl, considered nobility only by Waking Sea's law and custom. She would bring his family no alliance or political stability, no dowry but the weapons and armor she carried in battle. Fergus had been impossibly lucky in finding love in Oriana, but the wheel of fortune had spun to compensate that fluke with him. At the time, fresh back home, he'd been so envious, even resentful, especially when Fergus, oblivious of the secret, teased him. Some of it still lingered in the dark recesses of his mind. But that was the past.

The future ahead of them was bleak, instead. In the charged silence hanging between them, Cormac realized that what had been just a joke with Fergus or a game of cat and mouse with his mother a scant few days ago couldn't be considered such anymore. Howe's treachery had changed everything. His marriage could well secure a vital alliance in the coming days, and Waking Sea's allegiance was already cemented in the blood shared between the two families.

Cormac closed his eyes as the facts of reality fought against his selfish desire and won. One day, he'd free her from her oaths, but her chances of finding a suitable match would plummet if she allowed him to despoil her. No respectable man would take another's leftovers and Cormac ultimately cared and respected Alfstanna too much to do that to her.

The resigned sigh behind him announced that Alfstanna had reached much the same conclusion. He looked at her over his shoulder and offered all he was allowed to give, a self-deprecating smile.

"We do what we must, don't we?"

"Always." He hated himself with a burning passion when she mirrored his smile. Knowing he was doing the right, proper thing didn't lend him any comfort. "Try to rest. I'll come and wake you in the morning. You need a shave."

* * *

Cormac awoke to leaden limbs and a deeply-set weariness, but a pinch of elfroot and embrium powder mixed with a hearty breakfast put him back to his feet, at least for the time being. One full night of rest was more than he would have allowed himself, but he was still glad calmer minds had prevailed over his self-destructive tendencies this time. Alfstanna behaved like nothing had happened the night before - and really, nothing had -, remaining a constant, steadying presence at his side. The crucial matters requiring his full attention were more than enough to put the previous night's events to rest as well.

His mother's condition hadn't changed through the night, Anders informed him. Cormac delayed talks of the healer's reward again, part of it due to the selfish desire to have his skills on call for the time being, and part of it because he still needed to take stock of what had been salvaged during the flight. Still, the apostate was amenable enough to attend the many wounded that now crowded Jelling's winter abodes, under the temporary promise of a roof over his head, three hot meals, and no templars to bully him around. Cormac drew the line at the casual zapping of two-legged nuisances, however, and made sure that the guards assigned to him were both locals and male.

The last headcount of the refugees surpassed the five hundred, nearly doubling Jelling's population in one go. Jarl Elderath had thrown both the winter quarters reserved for the many shepherds populating the island and his own ring fortress open to accommodate the massive influx of people, but the infamy of Waking Sea's warriors was only half the reason why their borderline heretic practices were mostly ignored by the Chantry. Like most of Rivain, the isles were poor, as were its harvests. Sheep or druffalo meat and fish were a sight as common as bread. Raiding, during the Occupation and the Rebellion, had been as much a matter of defiance as a necessity of survival.

He spent the morning with Ser Irminric, Elderath's firstborn and Alfstanna's older half-brother, setting up rationing, distributing blankets and clothes sewn from the castle women, and surveying the first stage of construction of two more longhouses that would house over a hundred.

At the end of it, ledgers at hand, Cormac knew that with the added strain, Jelling's granaries wouldn't last them through the winter. Even with what they'd taken from the family vaults, there was gold enough to buy maybe two months of basic supplies from the Free Marches. Bread, fish, blankets, and wool would feed his people and clothe them for a while, but they wouldn't found a war.

They convened at midday in Elderath's war room, which also doubled as the Eremon's family dining room. Cormac, Alfstanna, Oriana, Oren, Chill, the Jarl, and Ser Irminric shared a simple meal of pickled eggs, turnip and barley stew with druffalo sausages, and Highever drunken cheese, the latter small luxury afforded for Oren's sake, as one of the boy's favorites. The atmosphere was somber, even as small talk was attempted and while Cormac was proud of his nephew for not glancing away when the towering Jarl turned to assess him, the boy remained quiet, one hand always on Chill's warm fur when he could spare it.

The massive skull of a giant hanging just above the Jarl's seat, the trophy of a nigh-legendary hunt, probably didn't help matters. Cormac knew he'd been terrified of the thing's empty stare during his first months at Jelling. Over the years, he'd seen grown men shift and fidget in its presence, which was why the Jarl kept it where he did in the first place.

Soon, however, Oren excused himself as he'd been taught to do, and Alfstanna led him out to the stables. Maybe riding would take his nephew's mind off things. Maybe it'd remind him of Highever. Cormac promised himself he'd talk to him soon.

The servants filled their cups again with mulled wine and ale, left the pitchers, and disappeared as well. Then the maps came out.

"I wish to say again that I'm sorry for your losses," Elderath declared and the whole room boomed with his voice, "Waking Sea and the Eremons are with you, to our dying breath. What is ours is yours. We grieve with you." The Jarl unsheathed his runic knife, slit it across his palm, and squeezed a few drops of blood in his ale. "And Andraste is my witness, I swear I won't have peace until that snake Howe isn't ripped apart by four horses!"

Ser Irminric nodded and repeated his father's oath and gestures, then both drowned their cups in a single breath. Grateful as he was by the oath, Cormac couldn't help but think that they should have done it before Fergus, or at least Oren, as heir-presumptive to the Teyrnir.

He kept his silence, however, even if he saw the implication very clearly, and it soured the wine in his mouth when they toasted. A surreptitious look at Oriana told him that the nuances weren't lost on her either. If anything, she probably saw the ramifications further down the line than he did.

When the cups rested on the carved wood again, Cormac cleared his throat and looked at the three other people around the table.

"We need to be sure word gets south to Fergus. He must know what's happened and prepare." He steeled his voice. "With my father missing, or dead, he's the acting Teyrn of Highever. Uther and his riders could have been picked off by Howe's men, and they don't know that we made it here anyway. We have to send another message. One that will reach him." If only Fergus had taken a messenger pigeon with him. But father was supposed to be only a few days behind, so there had been no apparent need. And now, all the birds but the ones on the _Werewolf_ were dead or lost.

Ser Irminric tapped a finger against his cup, eyes distant. He was a tall man, an inch taller than Cormac himself, but slimmer than his father. Where Cormac had been fostered at Jelling, Irminric had grown up with Fergus at Highever. Some things and values, some to the Jarl's chagrin, had stuck. He was the first Eremon to take the knightly vows in two Ages.

"There's a merchant clan that has a trading station in Stonehammer. Here." He indicated the stretch of the coast closer to Waking Sea Hold's southern tip, east of Orzammar. "They deal with the army and among others have old ties the Grey Wardens. I'm sure their next supply train can leave sooner with an extra letter. For a fee, of course, but they would get a message south without raising suspicion."

The Jarl grunted, but Cormac needed more. "Do you trust them?"

"They are Drydens, Cormac," he said pointedly, "but they never tried to swindle us. Levi, the patriarch, is a reliable man. He will come through."

Oriana brushed her engagement ring, her tones not those of a doting mother, but the navigated businesswoman who'd come to manage and oversee a large chunk of the Couslands' trade interests.

"A stamped seal would be too much of a risk and it's better if these Drydens don't know who the letter comes from, in case they're interrogated or searched. One unmarked letter can be hidden more easily among many others." She slid off the ring and placed it tenderly on the table. "But Fergus will recognize this."

The next twenty minutes were spent hashing out and composing a letter to his brother. They left nothing out, eschewing the revolting details in favor of a cold retelling of the facts - their father's likely death, mother's condition -, a warning, and then a final reassurance of their safety in Jelling.

Oriana penned it in their personal cipher and signed it, then passed the pen around to Cormac and Jarl Elderath. She folded the vellum neatly around her engagement ring, then wax was poured to seal it and pressed with a flat stump. Ser Irminric excused himself and left to go arrange for a boat to take him to Stonehammer and the Dryden station there.

"Elderath, words cannot say how grateful I am for your hospitality, but at this pace, we'll all starve before winter ends."

The Jarl's face darkened, but there was a dangerous glint in his eyes that made him resemble the giant's skull.

"Agreed. I say we strike hard and we strike now. I've been preparing the rest of the fleet since I returned from our foray against the Armada. My longships will be ready in three more days. Combining our forces, we'll have over forty ships at out command. We can be all over the Amaranthine coast by the end of the week. The traitor will only have small garrisons left here and there. Nothing that can stop us." The Jarl smiled that grim smile that pulled at his burn scar and tattoos, making him look more a demon than a man. "By deed and blood, Cormac. Your family's words. And when we're done with Amaranthine and have bled them out, we'll move on to Gwaren." He jabbed a finger at the coast in front of Waking Sea's southern reaches. "A few ships can defend the isles. Let Howe sit and freeze his ass on the Narrows if he's something to say to that. All the better."

Cormac contemplated the plan, feeling both the Jarl's and Oriana's eyes on him. The idea tempted him, stroking his stirring bloodlust, but there were too many complications. Eventually, he shook his head. "I can't condone such wide-scale attacks until I get word from Fergus. He's the Teyrn now."

"Your brother's stuck in the middle of the country, lad! We must move now, while they think us on the back foot."

"My husband would never approve of raiding Ferelden soil to this extent," Oriana interjected, gentle but uncompromising.

"Ferelden struck and broke allegiance first, lady Oriana," Elderath spat back. "Cormac here has the ancestral arms of Highever. He's every right of leading us into battle. Or are you saying now that your eyes deceived you and you imagined the royal banner side by side with Howe's?"

"My eyes are as sharp as ever," Cormac growled. "I know what I saw. We all saw it."

Elderath sighed, downed a gulp of wine, and pinned Cormac with a look. "I sense a 'but' there. Out with it, then."

Cormac searched for the right words, but he still had to come to grips with it himself. "I only saw one banner," he tried. "I asked Alfstanna and my men, and they all agree. Only one banner. Cailan or the Queen travel with a number of them. A single banner means either a royal envoy or a company of Maric's Shield."

"One banner is more than enough to declare allegiance or break it."

"True," Cormac agreed, "but Teyrn Loghain marched the entirety of Maric's Shield south. So that leaves a royal envoy. But why would an envoy travel openly with the invading army of a vassal? A surprise attack at night is no way to do diplomacy." Cormac ground his teeth, then added sourly, 'Though it did deliver a message."

The Jarl huffed. "So what you say? Either the royal blondes sent an incompetent envoy, or Loghain left a company or two behind without penning it. Either way, they were into this, up to their necks."

Cormac scowled, glaring at the map. He couldn't fault the Jarl's logic, but something was bothering him as if he was missing something.

"There's another option," Oriana said, "the banner could be a _contraffazione_."

"A what?"

Cormac nodded slowly at the familiar Antivan word, but Oriana explained for the Jarl. "Sorry. A fake, part of an elaborate ruse to make allies turn against each other, sow chaos, and distract everyone from the true perpetrator. Two capable seamstresses could weave a similar enough banner in only a few days, and it wouldn't be hard to keep it a secret."

The Jarl crossed his bare arms, frowning in thought. "Maker," he breathed out after a long minute, "that would be something else."

Cormac nodded, trying to keep his voice even. "If we assume for a moment that the Crown isn't part of this madness, then Howe has undone himself with his own hands. Hundreds will have seen the banner. We have. Word will get out, whether he wants it or not. And someone in his counsel would end up talking. Whatever web of lies he's spinning to justify this power grab would unravel in his hands. He'd be marked a traitor." He looked down at the map then, and the small flame of hope in his gut was snuffed out. He sighed. "But the army's south to contain the darkspawn. Damn it."

"It's only a theory anyway," Elderath grumbled, fingering his cup. "It would be good if it was true, I won't deny it, but it seems pretty far-fetched."

"At least it's clear that we don't have the full picture," Cormac grumbled, then turned to Oriana. His sister-in-law had a thoughtful look about her, eyes flitting between Ferelden's map and Thedas'. "You have an idea." It wasn't a question. He'd learned to recognize that look in the past six years.

Oriana uncurled three fingers in quick succession. "We need information. We need supplies. We need allies. I know how and where we can obtain all of the above in short order and much more, will all the deniability that gold can buy." She tapped three locations on two different maps. "Denerim, Kirkwall, and Rialto."

Cormac blinked. Elderath actually choked, then waved a hand at Oriana's look. "Go on," he said testily.

"There's an eminent Antivan merchant in Denerim, Cesar Astuni. Most Antivan and Rivaini goods pass through him or his subordinates, which of course means he's got ties with my family and his fingers are in too many pies and pockets to be touched by any suspicion. A letter of introduction, delivered discreetly, should grant you a private meeting... and knowledge if someone's put a contract on you." She gave Cormac a concerned, searching look. "He acts as a cover to the local cell of Crows. But Cormac, you must be extremely careful: the Crows don't attack targets who are also potential clients, not without hearing them out first, but they don't respect Fereldans either as a rule. You'll be at a disadvantage from the very first moment: my family's name will grant you some protection, but they'll simply be better than you at the game of subterfuge. Accept only what you're ready to pay for: they don't do free services and you don't want to be indebted to the Crows."

Cormac took in her words and the palpable worry thickening them. The Crows were bad news all around, but if Oriana reckoned their help was necessary -

"I told your uncle once already, my lady," Elderath hissed through clenched teeth, "and I'll tell you too. We don't send an assassin to stick a knife in a man's back here in Ferelden. We take care of our own damn business."

"The choice is Fergus', or Cormac's," Oriana replied, unwavering, "not yours, my lord. The Crows don't thrive on murder alone. They've been the eyes and ears of Antiva since Queen Mother Campana's times. And with enough gold, they can be ours too. For a while, at least. If someone can discover if the Crown really stands behind Howe, it's them."

"The way you put it, I'll be the one to deal with them," Cormac cut the Jarl off quickly. "Where will you be? Kirkwall?"

The corners of Oriana's eyes tightened, cracking her composure "I must go there myself and speak with cousin Diego. Through him, I can arrange for an initial cargo to tie us over, but my family's resources in the city are limited. I'll have to ride or sail to Rialto for more." She sighed, but her posture remained stiff. "Speak with my mother, face to face."

Cormac turned the idea over in his head. The alliance between the Couslands and the Biasìn wasn't the smoothest, but it was sealed in marriage, so such an initiative shouldn't need Fergus' approval. Moreover, it was the sensible choice. Oriana's family was rich enough to... he failed to conjure up an appropriate simile. Antiva was so prosperous from centuries of continued peace that they just fought by proxy when they had to. Any of the major houses could pay a king's ransom to hire entire mercenary companies or the Crows, and still have enough to put the Royal Treasury to shame.

The more he thought about it, the more the positive aspects jumped out at him. Yet it was the single, unavoidable complication that made his heart heavy. Cormac ignored the Jarl's darkening scowl and turned to his sister-in-law.

"You'll have an escort. A dozen men, at least. I'll pick them myself. And a personal servant, of course. As for the ship -"

"The merchant vessel you requisitioned will do," Oriana interjected gently, but there was no missing the tense note behind her words, no matter how much she schooled herself. Yet, she persevered. "Longships are too distinct. They'd draw attention, and we don't know who's watching. A promise of refund and a bonus will keep the captain and crew loyal, but from Kirkwall... horses may be a safer solution, if slower. With the Blight abound, the King will have recalled the usual patrols to Antiva City to confer with his admirals. Even," she swallowed, "even with the ships you've sunk and captured, the Armada is still strong, and will exploit this window to replenish their losses." Oriana took a steadying breath and looked down. Cormac didn't miss the sheen in her eyes, nor how her shoulders drooped slightly. "A small, strong party can ride quickly through the Vinmark Mountains and cross the Minranter in less than a month. My cousin can see to the horses. Weather and Maker allowing, I could be back before long winter sets in with enough gold, supplies, ships, and swords to make a real difference. Just a few months," she added, almost to herself.

Cormac had moved up to Oriana's side by then and wrapped an arm around her shaking shoulders. One glare was enough to silence Jarl Elderath. From the look on his face, he probably had a general idea, if not much in the way sympathy or understanding.

Cormac decided it was no use delaying what all three of them knew already anyway.

"Sister, about Oren -"

"I know," she said choppily. "I know. He must stay here, in case something - in case something happens to Fergus. He's the heir. And Antiva is no place for him, not so young. My mother would try and sink her claws into my _bambino_." Cormac squeezed her shoulders again, giving her the time to compose herself again. After a minute, she wiped at her eyes with the hem of her sleeve and sniffled. "Maker, I'm a mess. I'm sorry. This was pitiful."

"Don't worry, sister," he said, trying to soothe her. Oriana's first pregnancy, just a few weeks after she set foot in Ferelden, had been complicated by a sudden fever. The Circle healer that was called in had saved her life but also revealed that the child she carried was long dead, and indeed, its festering body was the very cause of the nearly-lethal illness.

Then Oren was born and Cormac couldn't remember someone more radiant than Oriana when the midwife put the swaddled, crying child in her arms. Since that day, mother and son hadn't been separated for more than a few hours.

It broke Cormac's heart in two to see her like this and imagine Oren's reaction to the news. And yet, like the night before with Alfstanna, there was no other option that wouldn't end in harm and disaster for everyone. They were nobles. They had a duty to their people and to their families. Oriana had to go and Oren had to remain in Ferelden.

Jarl Elderath retained the tact and decency to wait until she excused herself before he started to argue back.

"You seem to be on board with all of this. Heck, my bloody son will be as well, if I know him. But I don't like this, Cormac. I never said anything when your brother returned from Antiva a married man, for respect to your parents and because even I can see she makes your brother happy and is a good mother to the boy, but this? Consorting with assassins? Foreign gold to fight our wars? Mercenaries? Madness. Mercenaries are only loyal to their pockets."

"Nobody pays better than Antiva," Cormac deadpanned.

"That's what I say, lad. Antiva, not Couslands." The giant of a man leaned on the table with both hands, making it creak. "Look, you trust her, and I believe she's loyal and acts in good faith as much as you do, but it's her family that will fork over the gold. Can you say the same of them? Can you say this won't be the beginning of another Occupation?"

"We'll make sure it won't be," Cormac promised, conceding the point. "And look at the alternative." He brought the Jarl's attention to the map. "Raiding the Arling and Amaranthine is only a short-term solution, even with Howe's forces away. With the darkspawn in the south, the Crown will have bought large shares of the crops and supplies to feed their soldiers through the rest of summer and autumn. Howe will have taken another good chunk for his own army. Amaranthine's granaries are full, but the city is also well defended from a sea attack. And if we raid foreign ships sailing in and out of the city, any sympathy and support we have won't be long-lived when the smallfolk start to hunger. Even if Fergus marches the army north today, we cannot stand alone in this."

"Ferelden kicked the Orlesians back through the Frostbacks alone, lad. Your grandfather and I set Jader's dockyards on fire. Amaranthine isn't nearly as well defended, or garrisoned."

Cormac slapped a hand on the map. His head was pulsating, a headache building behind his eyes. "I'm speaking of proper Fereldan allies. Even in the worst case scenario, with the Crown, Gwaren, and Redcliffe supporting Howe in an unholy alliance, can you see Bryland, Wulffe, and the bannorn going along with this while there's a Blight at our doorstep?"

"Bryland and Wulffe are in the south." Elderath's lips were a thin, bloodless line behind his beard. "The threat of the Blight may lead them compromise."

"No, I don't buy it and neither will Fergus. Wulffe and Bryland supported my father for the throne without the prospect of marrying into the family or the promise of elevating their standing at court." No, it was Howe who'd had the most to earn from a Cousland on the throne, and the one who'd seen his ambitions evaporate the day his father stepped down in front of the Landsmeet. "Whenever Fergus learns of this, Bryland will be the first ally he'll reach out too. We need to do our part, seize an advantage. Let Oriana take care of the supplies."

Elderath stroked his beard, mulling it over. A neutral grunt was all that Cormac got out of him. But he could work with that. "Then what do you propose, lad? I will not stand idle as that cursed son of a magister feasts and flaunts Highever in our faces. And I'd like to imagine you won't either."

As if. Cormac held the Jarl's intense stare and put a finger down on Ferelden's map. Cormac met Elderath's crooked grin with a grim smile of his own. Maybe it was best that Oriana had already left.

"We're rescuing Lady Eliane and Delilah."

* * *

 _AN: My thanks to_ _ **coduss, KingSlapaDude, DmCrebel25, Vampirelord101, Rinnala Llethan, Aegon Blacksteel,**_ _and_ _ **lupusadaquilonem**_ _for their feedback and reviews. Special thanks to_ _ **Caedmon Cousland**_ _for his very informative and thorough messages on medieval politics and customs. Another slowish chapter, but there's a whole bunch of politics, a lot of stones start rolling, and there's over 7k words of Cormac for you all since he seems to be everyone's favorite character. Huzzah._

 _If you find that some of the things Cauthrien "discovers" in her scene contradict Cormac's POVs – like, say, the questioned servants and guards knowing about Bryce's Orlesian plans when Cormac didn't – you're not mistaken and I haven't developed precocious dementia. Howe is playing a very risky game, and he had a few cards prepared up his sleeve to try and justify his actions, or at least instill a few doubts into the Landsmeet and the Crown._

 _I did have other plans for Cormac's first scene, but then I got sidetracked by some research on Norse home customs to flesh out the Waking Sea isles and Jelling, and things snowballed from there. The pen writes what the pen wants. I hope the romance bits didn't come completely out of the blue: I've left a few hints here and there in the previous chapters (from Fergus' joke to the growing up together and how much Cormac trusts and relies on Alfstanna, plus a few ambiguous lines), so yeah, here's the first "Ideal Pairing" of this story, with ideal meaning "damn if they want to, but the world has other ideas". Cormac/Alfstanna won't be the only one to follow that general template._

 _On geography, I know sometimes I'm not perfectly consistent with names and locations, so here's a bit of a primer: Antiva City is the capital of Antiva (points for originality, Bioware), while Rialto is the seat of power of the Biasìn family. Highever is the seat of the Teyrnir of Highever, while Castle Cousland is, indeed, the Couslands' residence on a hill atop the city (Bioware's naming originality infected me). As for Waking Sea, the isles are called Waking Sea, the bannorn-equivalent of the area is known officially as Waking Sea Hold, and Jelling is its seat, where Jarl Elderath rules from._

 _Anyway, the first chunk of next chapter is already written and is indeed more Bethany (sorry not sorry) so it may or may not come out before New Years' Eve, considering how her chapters are faster to write. It all depends on how things pan out with my Fallout fic, mostly. I also gifted myself the second volume of The World of Thedas, so some of the references, like the Queen Mother of Antiva or the food they eat at Waking Sea, are straight from there._

 _Whew, long Author Note is long. Thank you all for reading. Don't forget to leave a_ _ **review**_ _. The Ghost of Christmas Authors demands you leave a review. Heck, scratch that: it'd be stellar if all of you showed some well-deserved love to the authors of all the fics you'll read up until New Years' Eve. Spread the love throughout the community. Which includes me, by the way, so_ _ **review**_ _._


	7. 7) Bethany IV, Part I

**BETHANY**

Days turned into weeks, but the darkspawn kept to the forest and marshes, never challenging the army by crossing the tree line. And yet, day by day, Bethany awoke to another patch of the verdant horizon withered gray and dead; the black clouds loomed ever closer, their shadow threatening to spill over the treeline and blanket the army camp and its expanding fortifications. Scouts sent to investigate, Chasind and Ferelden alike, were laid on her cots every day covered in wounds and raving of blades, darkness, and claws.

Despite Teyrn Loghain's orders and her own best efforts alongside the other healers to maintain hygiene, blight sickness started spreading through the camp outside the limits of the infirmary, carried by sick game caught around the fortress or by tainted soldiers avoiding the infirmary, knowing their ultimate fate was either poison or strangulation.

Around the Wardens' fires, the laughter became rougher, the jokes more strained. King Cailan, sharing stories and drink in his golden armor, became a rarer sight: he toured the camp, speaking with common soldiers and knights alike, trying to bolster morale. Everywhere Bethany turned, in every conversation she overheard, fear and impatience to confront the darkspawn went hand in hand, making the very air buzz.

It was either that or the mosquitoes. They bit her faster than she could heal the welts until she desisted and dedicated that energy to her work. The tiny pests rampaged through Ostagar, hungry and thicker than the humidity in the air, chased off from the Wilds to find easier prey in the stagnant army.

Bethany's days became an exhausting routine, punctuated by brief moments of respite she dared to enjoy when she and Theresa bathed in turns in the unfamiliar privacy of their room - all the humidity made ice magic come more easily - while the other stood watch at the canopy door for curious brothers; at other times, it was around a campfire with a bowl of soup warming her hands, made from venison the Wardens reassured her was untainted. And yet, even those moments all too easily led her to introspection and to contemplate her current situation, throwing her in a loop of apprehension and guilt, intermixed by bouts abject terror.

The rest of her time was a whirlwind of activity that quickly purged her from the sedate rhythms of the Circle. Brosca drilled them into the ground in the mornings; she'd work herself to the bone in the infirmary for the rest of the day and fall asleep as soon as she found her cot, those times she made it that far and didn't risk falling asleep on her dinner. At times, Alistair, Daveth and the balding knight, Ser Jory of Redcliffe, joined Brosca's morning sessions, but physical conditioning continued to be the dwarf's favored torture.

Sometime Brosca would pit her and Theresa against one another, kicking back as the cloister lit up with fire, ice, lightning, glyphs, barriers, and telekinesis, though Theresa never dispelled her mana to cheat to a win. Other times, it was Bethany and Theresa, alone or together, against the other recruits and Alistair, or in mixed groups. The ex-templar was courteous enough to never Smite her or Theresa, limiting himself to draining their spells of mana or weakening them. Once or twice, Brosca dragged in a few of the other Wardens for pitched melees.

Well into the second week, as the two of them started to get the hang of the whole armor business, the dwarf dropped the distant instructor routine and joined in as well, often playing the role of the darkspawn. The other two recruits, more seasoned, became regulars in their morning sessions as well. Cross-training, in Brosca's words, would make them more used to casting under pressure and inure the fighters to confront spellcasters, with an eye to future clashes with emissaries. Or so he claimed. Bethany was pretty sure he just enjoyed a good rush.

Still, it took a lot of coaxing from Alistair to convince Ser Jory to bend to Brosca's regimen.

"It's not fair, Warden," the knight argued, arms crossed and face stormy, "a mage can set me on fire with a thought, fry me with lightning, or freeze me. I wouldn't have the time to take two steps. You're the only one with templar training here."

"And I'd almost forgotten about that," Theresa snarked, smacking her lips at Alistair's pointed look.

Alistair rolled his eyes, then patted the burlier knight on one of his ox-like shoulders. "That's exactly the reason we - well, Brosca, is putting you through this. A templar or a mage won't always be nearby to fight an emissary for you. There are methods, however. This will teach you how."

In the privacy of her mind - and dreams, which she shared almost every night with Theresa now, very much enjoying the peace of the demon-free, raw Fade dreamscape she offered; her off-tune strumming, she enjoyed less - Bethany feared the first halfway-decent spellcaster to set their eyes on Ser Jory would kill or cripple him. Especially if emissaries used blood magic and entropy, as Alistair claimed. He always got a panicked look in his eyes when Bethany started weaving a spell or drew a glyph in the air, and his body became stiff as a board, losing that surprising nimbleness he showed when sparring with the other Wardens.

Daveth was better at that whole dance, and his leaner build or quicker feet were only half the reason why. Despite her continued rebukes on the matter, the scoundrel hadn't desisted from his flirting. Far from it actually. He had no qualms in teasing her during their training, making it harder to tone down the lethality of her spells, or to focus at all.

He had... quite the roguish smile, she had to admit. He wasn't as handsome as many of the templars serving in the Circle, or even Alistair, but it was a rare templar who smiled or showed his face in the Circle. The bucket heads just stood with their eyes concealed behind the slits of their helmets, always, always watching. Those memories always sobered her up. Theresa, Maker bless her soul, had even fewer qualms in wiping the smirk from the thief's face with a helping of concussive hexes - and one time, a poke from her staff enhanced with force magic that threw him head over heels - when Bethany still got too distracted to cast properly.

A twelve-day after her arrival, a scouting brought back what Brosca cheerfully named 'proper teachin' material'.

"This ugly sod's a genlock, lasses. C'mon, look closer. Give it a kick. Pretty face's too dead by half to bite."

Bethany edged around the squat, skewered corpse. The irrational part of her mind feared those beady eyes and razor-sharp teeth would spark with life anew any moment and bite her, try to grab her, and drag her underground. The rational part, toughened by the many days spent dispensing mercy to the sick, had her fingers itch to set the whole thing on fire. It looked and smelled worse than a week-old decaying corpse, a cloying mix of sharp marsh odors and the vile stench of blight sickness she smelled even in her sleep these days.

"Don't be shy," Brosca insisted, then he followed his own advice and kicked the still grinning corpse in the head. Bone cracked; its neck snapped. The sound made Bethany's bowels churn as the head lolled back. The hungry grin persisted. "Here, like this. Beat the fear away."

Theresa inhaled sharply and grimaced at the stench under her hood, then kicked the thing, the genlock, right between its legs.

Brosca hooted. "Good one, lassie! Won't faze a live one for shit, but that's progress. You next, sparkle-feet! Give it a good one."

Bethany had to admit, it was liberating, even when the corpse giggled wetly in response. After the kicking was over, Brosca sat them down and began to share both his wide array of methods to cure the darkspawn of their persistent case of life and the wide array the darkspawn possessed to cure her in turn. Soon, the lesson devolved into a back and forth debate between the mages and the dwarf on what he called 'combined arms'; each group drew from the other's unique perspective and skills to devise new and even more lethal ways to end the darkspawn. Alistair, the other recruits, and then more Wardens joined in on the fun as the sun climbed up in the sky; shortly before midday, it all degenerated into a practice brawl, resulting in the largest, most extenuating training session yet.

Bethany couldn't deny a certain pride when none of the Wardens but Alistair was consistently able to land a hit on her when she played emissary. Then Commander Duncan opted to stretch with his subordinates before lunch; Bethany's definition of 'fast', as well as her self-esteem, were revised in short order.

The Highever troops and more bannorn levies poured into Ostagar well into her third week; Commander Duncan was summoned to a meeting of the King's Privy Council within the next hour. When she came back from the infirmary that night, tiptoeing through the moaning, smelly, farting, and snoring Wardens to her bed - Wardens were louder in their sleep than apprentices tormented by demons - his cot was still empty and made.

Next thing she knew, Alistair was shaking her awake, stepping back as she extricated herself from under her blankets. She blinked owlishly at her surroundings as she stirred and yawned; Theresa was still snoring and drooling into her pillow, body twisted around like a corkscrew, as if she'd wrestled all night with her blanket.

"The King's made up his mind," he said as if trying to justify an intrusion. "We're ranging into the Wilds to see what the darkspawn are up to. Give them a good poke, maybe, and grab some old Warden treaties along the way. Well, huh, first we've got to find them, both of them, so that comes..." He gulped, then turned away. "Yeah. Right. I'll leave you now. To change and wake up your cousin. Yes. I'll, huh, I'll be outside."

Was that a blush creeping up his neck, under the ever-present rubbing fingers? Still trying to pick the cobwebs from her brain, she glanced down at herself: the blanket pooled around her knees and the spare shirt she slept in hiked up her waist, baring her thighs and a hint, just a hint, of her smallclothes.

Years of faceless strangers watching her undress and bathe had thickened her skin. In fact, Theresa and she had decided to watch each others' back as they bathed the previous weeks more out of unease lingering from their first meeting with the Wardens than really enjoying the privacy. And yet, as Theresa's snores turned into a choking snort that preluded awakening, she decided it was better if her cousin never knew what just happened. The slight warmness in her own cheeks had nothing to do with that, she told herself.

* * *

Commander Duncan pressed an empty vial of shatterproof glass into her hand with orders to fill it to the brim with darkspawn blood for the Joining ritual, then sent them on their way. The large ranging left shortly after dawn under the command of the newly arrived Lord Fergus Cousland of Highever.

Filling the mage recruits in on the reasons behind what to Bethany sounded a lot like feeding men to the darkspawn by the spoonful apparently wasn't high on the Commander's list of priorities. Alistair's sudden inclination for Daveth and Ser Jory's company, punctuated by the rosy color marching up his face like a conquering army every time she caught him glancing in her direction, left Brosca to walk the green mages through the ins and outs of the King's and the Commander's tactic. Stuff that, as a former Legionary of the Dead, turned out to be again quite up his alley, as with nearly anything concerning the disgusting, terrifying creatures.

The lecherous waggles of the dwarf's heavy-set brows also made subtle cooling spells a precious trick, what with Theresa in the vicinity.

"Sendin' so many's a risk, aye, but we can't sit on our arses while big 'n' scaly mucks about. Gotta pinpoint the 'spawn entrance - or entrances - into the Deep Roads. These trees-forest-thingies you have up here are chock-full of warbands and the like, but they ain't the soddin' horde, trust me. Stone, they're like these blasted mosquitoes!" He squashed one on his forehead, barely grunting as the thick gauntlet smacked his bare skin hard. "They poke us, bleed us out, and make scoutin' deeper with small numbers a death sentence. Works like a screen of sorts. Commander sent Alec and Judal in, few weeks back." Brosca shook his head. "Last decent skirmish we had 'fore you dropped by was the 'spawn that chased Alec back to camp."

"And Judal?" Bethany asked before she connected the dots.

Brosca rolled his eyes. "Tree-hugger always said he felt right at home with all the green 'n' critters. Now he's rottin' in there, somewhere."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"Heh, it's war." He shrugged, casting a critical eye around the force assembling at the foot of the fortress. Bethany followed his example. Two hundred pikemen, halberdiers, and crossbowmen from Highever and about as many mixed levies from the South Reach Arling made up the backbone of Lord Cousland's forces. A strong group of Ash Warriors and their painted mabaris had been tossed in as well, with Chasind wilders to act as scouts and support.

The wilder that had grabbed her weeks back out of the infirmary was among their number, off by the supply cart and not mingling with the other Chasind. Now that she saw him close to the other wilders, their clothes and armor looked markedly different. The stalker's furs were heavier, as if to ward off the cold rather than the damp heat of the Ostagar. He'd kept his distance after the incident, but still, she'd caught glimpses of him nearly every day. Even now, with a heavy helmet hiding the top half of his head, she felt his eyes probing her.

"Anyho, they did figure out a general direction 'fore things got messy, so that's somethin'," Brosca continued as they approached the prohibitive treeline. The ankle-deep mud, softened by the odd downpour, was already trying to tear the boots off her feet with every other step. Terrible sucking and squelching sounds came from the supply wagon rolling behind them, enhanced by the huffing of oxen and the encouragement of the driver. She almost missed Brosca's whisper in that confusion.

"A group this large won't screw up the army and can absorb losses 'till we get close 'nough for a few people to sneak closer. That'll be Corbus' and Torren's work." He tilted his chin up to the center of the column ahead of them. The two Wardens were leaning in thick conversation Lord Cousland. From what she glimpsed of the northern noble, he looked far from pleased. "Other scouts ain't worth their weight in bronto crap if most of them 'spawn stay underground, and we can't plan a defense if we dunno how many we're up against. Still, even with luck and Stone on our side, a lot of these lads won't make it back."

Bethany gulped, trying to imagine the scope of death Brosca pictured, and failing as she saw the collection of faces surrounding them. Under the cowls and helmets, many looked about her age, or younger. Others reminded her of Damien and father. She quickly focused on the back of Brosca's head and forced her thoughts to contemplate other avenues, like how would the Wardens scout an underground force without descending themselves.

"So, they're bait?" Theresa asked, toying with the hem of her hood. Bethany had yet to see her outside without it, but the few times it got knocked back during training, her cousin hadn't been reduced to a panicking mess anymore. At least, not for the few seconds it took to replace it.

"We all are, lass. Ya two just double up as artillery," Brosca corrected. "Corbus and Torren don't need no company and ya recruits are my responsibility. Alistair's too, I guess, but the lad's kinda distracted today." Bethany rolled her eyes surreptitiously and Brosca chuckled. "We're gonna find some decent defensive spot and bunker down for a wee while. Thatol' Warden outpost we're swingin' by sounds bloody ideal. Tevs 'n' Avvars know their stonework. Themtreaties'll be, how do you surfacers say it - ah, the cherry on top!"

* * *

If Ostagar was still in the grip of summer, autumn had fallen early and harsh over the Wilds, stewarded by the rolling leaden sky; a carpet of dry leaves and dead wood e covered the serpentine, boggy paths, making the march a challenge of stubbornness and fortitude against nature from the get-go.

Despite her magic, the abrupt drop in temperature as the ranging made Bethany wrap herself in the thick coat and scarf she'd been offered before departing.

The sheer abundance of trees and the uneven, treacherous terrain made it impossible to see clearly in any one direction; a dense roof created by the canopies entwining their leafless branches blocked out what little light would filter through the clouds. Less than an hour out, it was up to torches and lanterns to lighten most of the path and anything beyond their immediate surroundings.

Blight sickness affected nature as much as it did men. Bethany passed trees stripped of their bark to show the rotting core beneath and ponds were the water was so murky and thick with dead fish, light barely reflected off its surface. The wilds were never really silent, but the only sounds were those of marching men, sedated chatter, and the wind whistling through the naked trees. Bethany imagined eyes on her behind every tree and rock; by the number of turning, snapping heads around her, she wasn't the only one.

A few times, someone along the line intoned the notes of some popular song to try and stave off boredom and apprehension, but few picked up on it and the bold voices soon became quiet. She saw Lord Cousland march up and down the column with his household guards and retinue, speaking to some of the soldiers and receiving the reports from Chasind scouts and Ash Warriors alike; even the great, painted mabari were restless, their ears twitching without pause.

From her position somewhere in the middle of the column, brightened more than most by their twin mage-lights, Bethany soon saw emaciated wolves run parallel to the column and skulk around. At one point, a few of the bolder - or hungrier - tested the soldier's reactions, only to be feathered by crossbow bolts and arrows, then left to rot. As she walked past the first of the bodies, she saw the tumorous growths, festering wounds, and its milky white eyes.

"Blight wolf. Poor beast; better burn it," Alistair said, having walked up with Daveth and Jory after a while, "the carrion eaters won't touch it, but it's going to spread even more corruption."

"Better make a bonfire of the whole soddin' place, salroka," Brosca grunted, "just take a look 'round."

"Don't say that aloud," Daveth hissed, stealing worried glances around. "The Witch of the Wilds lives in these woods. You don't want to anger her; she'll boil you in a cauldron and eat you for dinner."

Brosca scoffed. "If some lyrium ghost or sparkle feet's gonna get pissed over these tree-thingies, then I reckon she'll be mighty pissed at the 'spawn 'fore she notices me."

Bethany studied the carcass as the dwarf and the thief bickered back and forth in the background; her hands were warm under her armpits, and she really didn't feel like removing them from their shelter to use her staff. She drew a simple pattern with her foot, then channeled her mana down her body and into the soft muck below. The mud and tainted blood pooling around the blight wolf simmered, then started to boil. A moment later, a short column of fire erupted from under it, consuming the carcass in a contained inferno.

Daveth jumped back with an undignified yelp; Ser Jory's hand went to his sword, panicking eyes glued to the flames. Behind the small circle of Wardens and recruits, dozens of passing heads turned abruptly their way, sprinkling the air with curses.

Bethany gave them a sheepish look as Brosca guffawed, slapping a bewildered Daveth in the back. "Priceless, sparkle-feet! See, ya got your Witch right here."

Alistair sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "That's an insult, you know, especially to a mage. The Witch of the Wilds is like _the_ Apostate, with a capital A. Kidnapper of babies and leader of barbarian armies, that one."

"Only a choir boy would call _that_ an insult," Theresa snarked back, then nudged Bethany. "That was lazy."

Bethany stuck out her tongue and channeled a little bit more mana through her foot in response. Ice came very easy to her with all the humidity and the unnatural cold around her. The fire was out in moments, leaving blackened bones and ash coated in white frost.

"Just practice." She cleared her throat, recalling one of her father's favorites. "If your hands are busy -"

"- cast with your feet. Yes, yes, I know," Theresa echoed in mock annoyance. "Still a lazy bumpkin."

The same happened with the other carcasses fresh and old they passed. Bethany had felt her reserves grow almost on a daily basis since entering Brosca's tender care; as a result, the repeated spells resulted only in a minor drain, where they'd have left her winded only weeks before. Even if that hadn't been the case, however, she'd still have scoured the path clean: if it could spare even one more soldier an end by deathroot or strangulation, then she'd bear the extra fatigue.

As they negotiated their way further and further into the Wilds with no sign of darkspawn but the trail of their passage, she found her mana reserves replenishing far too fast; the very air, under the pervasive smell of rot and pressed human bodies, vibrated with an undercurrent of raw Fade energies that made her fingertips hitch. Up and down the column, mabari whined and huffed. Her thoughts began to wander in a weird mix of helplessness and euphoria that just begged her to use her magic. Her consuming fires grew taller, hotter; her ice coats thicker, blanketing in a larger radius around the corpses.

Alistair eyed her in concern; Jory and Daveth, as well as many soldiers around them, started to give her a wider berth. Brosca didn't seem to notice or really care.

Then Theresa started to giggle.

"Oh crap," she chirped loudly, then brought a hand up to stifle another giggle, "I think the Veil is damaged around here."

Bethany swallowed; little relief came from giving the new development a name. Still, knowledge was power; for a mage, only more so.

"How bad is it?" She asked around the onset of a headache.

Theresa made a so-and-so gesture with her hand, snorting through her nose. "Heh, enough for a few shades, maaaybe? Those would be fun."

"Great. Perfect," Alistair grumbled. "Darkspawn, meet demons. Oh, so nice to know you. We'll have the best of time together."

"Don't worry, choir boy. The big bad mage is here to protect your purity from the big rapey demons."

It was Brosca who asked the inevitable question. For once, humor didn't touch his voice, leaving the laugh lines under his tattoos flat. Maybe it was the sudden paleness that overtook Jory and Daveth, who were the only other people within hearing range. The squelch of marching boots at leaned made sure their words didn't carry too far.

"Lay it on me. How bad are we speakin'?"

Bethany turned to Theresa, but her cousin was clutching at her sides, face red from trying to hold laughter in. Alistair's arched eyebrow spoke more than a hundred snide words.

"The Veil, the barrier between the waking world and the Fade, is weakened here. It usually happens in places where a lot of blood has been shed," she explained as simply as she could. "That means some demons could slip through and enter the waking world. If Theresa says it's damaged enough for shades, we could be dealing with possessed corpses and animals. And the shades, of course." _'Or this could be just the outskirts of the affected area.'_

"We must tell Lord Cousland at once," Ser Jory said, "but - what's wrong with her?"

"Nothing's wrong with me!" Theresa declared, "I'm awesome!"

"I believe the words you're looking for are 'drunk with magic'," Alistair chuckled, then stopped Theresa from twirling her staff as she walked by putting a large hand on her shoulder. "Just, wow. I'd heard it was possible, but I thought the sergeant was just messing with us."

"Everyone reacts their own way," Bethany offered, eyeing her cousin with concern. She couldn't help but wonder. _'Is this why she was kicked out by the Seekers?'_

Theresa disentangled herself from Alistair with wide, dramatic motions. With a flick of her finger, she levitated two nuts from a belt pocket and shattered the shells, all with a drunken smirk plastered on her face. As she chewed on the seeds, she pointed a finger at Alistair.

"Last warnin', choir boy! Keep your stinkin', lyrium-y paw-hands off me!"

Ser Jory shook his head in exasperation and started off, jogging up to the head of the formation. Brosca grabbed Theresa by the arm and led her out of the marching column despite her protests; Bethany, Daveth, and Alistair followed.

"This was fun, but like she's now, a nug's gonna floor her 'n' ask for a refund." Theresa tried to free herself, but the dwarf's grip was of stone. Unrelenting, she started to poke his face with a finger. Despite her headache, Bethany found her lips curling up on their own. Alistair was keeping a suspiciously blank face. "How do ya stop her?"

"To repair the Veil we'd need several mages or a lot of lyrium and I don't know -" Brosca gave her a look, while Theresa made _boop_ sounds every time she poked the tip his nose. "Or a templar or another Spirit Mage to Cleanse her mana."

"Hey!" Theresa protested. "Don't touch my magic!"

"Well, I could do it, I guess," Alistair offered with the tone of someone volunteering to be drawn and quartered with those very words.

"Weren't you just a trainee?" Bethany asked, hating the sudden note of wariness in her voice.

"Oh, you remembered. Duncan got me out before they fed me the first bit of lyrium."

Bethany's brain stopped, then restarted on a heavy note of skepticism. "And you say you can Cleanse a mage's mana?"

"Cleanse, Smite, the full kit. Too bad for the spiffy armor," he said proudly, puffing his chest a little. Then he quickly added, "of course, you know, I'd never use it on you if you didn't ask or -"

"Yeah, that's bloody gallant and shit," Brosca snapped, grabbing Theresa's poking hand by the wrist. "Just make her stop!"

"But - I thought you liiiiiked me!"

Alistair hesitated. Bethany sighed, well aware of the attention locking on them as the tail end of the column approached. "Go on, I'll take the fall and stop her from crushing your squishy bits."

"Well, that's a relief. I'm rather fond of them."

It was like being dropped into a pond in the middle of winter, and that was only by standing nearby. In fact, surprise piled upon puzzlement as she underestimated the range and power of Alistair's Cleanse and ended up being marginally affected too. Her headache receded, as did the sneaking euphoria, leaving her feeling oddly empty. Theresa, hit by the brunt of it, went slack-faced and cross-eyed; her legs buckled, but Brosca kept her on her feet.

Lord Cousland's appearance with his retinue silenced Theresa's tirade and retribution before it could get started. Only then did Bethany notice that the column had stopped marching, and every single soldier was staring at them. She had an inkling Ser Jory had exaggerated some details of his brief report, because the noble's guards and knights held their hands on the pommels of their swords.

"I'm told there's a risk of demons and reanimated corpses in the area. Is that correct?" Bethany nodded. The noble didn't show any outward reaction; he just sized her up, then Theresa, who swayed once as she tried to stand on her own, before turning to Alistair. "There's a Chasind village up the bath, burned down and apparently empty. Your brothers alerted me that the darkspawn is strong in the area and went in to investigate with some of the locals guides. I need to know if it's safe enough for my men to cross through, or if we must walk the long way around it and if so, how far. Will you help?"

Alistair glanced at Brosca, who in turn looked at Theresa. When her cousin offered a thumbs up, the dwarf cleared his throat. "We'll go in, aye. Might take a wee while, though. Better set up a watch 'n' let your men rest while we're at it, milord: it's almost midday."

"Do as you must, Warden, but do it quickly," Cousland said, then glared up at the intertwined canopy and the leaden sky above. "I want to reach the outpost by sundown, before travel becomes impossible and we fall into an ambush. I'll leave some crossbowmen by the main path, in case you need assistance. Take care, Wardens."

* * *

A broken totem of blackened wood, bone, rope, and what might have been crow feathers once lay discarded against the demolished remains of a palisade. A single crow, the first untainted animal she'd laid eyes upon since entering the Wilds hours before, cawed and took flight, disappearing among the branches. The smell of smoke and blood still lingered on the destroyed village; it fouled the entire clearing, mixing with others that Bethany couldn't identify and one she was all too familiar with. Blight sickness.

It was the missing bits that set her teeth on edge, however. No stench decay. No buzzing flies. The air was still, positively throbbing with ambient magic. Even their steps of the muddy planks and scattered straw were muffled. Once the echo of the bird's farewell petered out, the silence was deafening.

Corbus, Torren, and the scouts were gathered ahead in the central glade around some wooden statue or sculpture; a number of the Chasind were kneeling around it, heads bowed in silent prayer. Bethany's eyes averted from that scene and fell on the bodies littering the village grounds; men, children and elderly, covered in soot and ashes where they were cut down as they fought or fled. Almost none were women. She bit down on her knuckles to choke a whimper but was unable to look away as she followed the others on a zigzagging path. There were dozens of corpses in the streets alone and the numbers only grew as they approached the village's center, but the bodies spared by the touch of the fire that had consumed nearly all of the wood and thatch houses remained disturbingly well preserved. The taint had killed everything the darkspawn didn't, even the flies and carrion trying to feed on the bodies.

Dead darkspawn dotted the village as well, half-burnt and horrifying even in death. Large numbers of them choked off part of the village square, torn to ribbons and squashed to a pulp. Bethany didn't dare set fire to any of them, despite her hitching hands and her naked fear of catching blight sickness. Her senses spoke to her of a fragile balance that reigned over the dead village, one she dreaded to upturn by conjuring magic. Theresa, her face a blank mask of indifference, nudged Brosca and dangled the crystal vial in a silent request. The dwarf shook his head.

"Blood's too old, lassie."

Bethany didn't know whether to envy or be worried for her cousin; at the moment, the entirety of her focus was relegated to keeping her breakfast down.

Alistair's grimace had the color of sickness. "No way in the Void anyone's marching through here anytime soon. What are those wilders thinking? Why did Corbus even allow them in?"

"The Chasind have certain rituals to prep the dead for burial," Daveth spoke up of all people, "but if any of the scouts are from this village, then they won't leave without first placating the leshy, or the spirit will haunt them and take their lives as payment." He swallowed at that, wiping sweat from his brow. "What?" He asked the four pairs of confused eyes and one sparkling settled on him. "I grew up some twenty miles to the north. Everybody knew the shaman here had a leshy, we just didn't speak of it with the templar hunters."

"The soddin' fuck's a _leshy_?" Brosca grumbled.

"A leshy? For real?!" Fatigue from the Cleanse washed off Theresa like the morning dew. "I've always wanted to see one!" Her enthusiasm petered off, snuffed out like a candle; she blinked and took a look around, as if really seeing the frozen massacre for the first time. "Oh, fuck me sideways."

The earth shook, cracking under their feet; the magic in the air screamed at her sixth sense as the facade of graveyard tranquility shattered. The air rippled, charged with energy, and demons clawed their way into the waking world through the holes in the Veil; black, oily shapes dripped into the material plane while faint whisps a lyrium blue outpaced each other to the nearest body, making no distinction between the living and the dead.

Theresa's anti-magic burst sent the closest demons reeling back from the party of Wardens and recruits just as sharp roots as thick as Bethany's leg burst out of the ground in the village center; the ethereal screech of repelled demons and the guttural growls of reanimating corpses were drowned by very human cries of agony. The lightly-armored Chasind dangled off the ground like broken puppets, impaled on the roots that seemed to be drinking their blood.

At the center of it stood a misshapen humanoid figure of scorched wood and chipped bone, faceless and silent as death incarnate, yet burning with unbridled hate and rage..

"Maker protect me! That's the leshy!" Daveth cried.

"Fuck it!" Brosca shouted back as more and more bodies shuffled and twitched into non-life. "Form up on me, just like we practiced! We're surrounded! Gotta get out of here!"

"No! We must destroy it now!" A couple of arcane bolts slammed into the nearest undead, tearing it to pieces. Theresa's hand twitched and the pale aura of force magic enveloped the warriors' steel. "Now that it's awake, it's acting like a bridge for the demons! The more it feeds, the more will come!"

Ser Jory roared and swung his two-handed sword in an arc, bisecting an undead Chasind from shoulder to navel; Brosca shattered a kneecap, then brought his hammer down, pulping the head of the crippled corpse; Daveth forwent his blades in favor of a poleaxe abandoned on the ground, thrusting and slashing from behind the bulwark of Alistair's shield. Ichor splashed on Bethany's face, shaking her out of her trance; all the weeks of training came back to her, containing the voice that just kept screaming and screaming in her head. A wall of fire manifested from thin air at her beseech, immolating more advancing undead.

"It's wood! I can take it down!"

"Then whatcha waitin' for, sparkle-feet?!"

The leshy trudged towards them with ponderous steps now, leaving most of the Chasind impaled behind him, propped up like sick sculptures, or blood sacrifices. The magic-enhanced blades tore into the undead all around her; a well-aimed fireball blasted a cluster of them to bits, but before she could turn her magic on the creature, Warden Torren emerged from the carnage of the square, swinging his double-edged axe. The blade _thudded_ into the leshy's side, biting deep, but roots growing from the leshy's wound wrapped around the weapon. Torren had to let go of the stuck weapon, lest the tendrils grab him too; not a moment too soon, as razor-sharp claws sliced the air where his head had been a moment before. The appendages tore into the Warden's shoulder instead, slicing through metal and leather and drawing a cry of agony from the Warden. As he fell, a javelin struck the leshy square in the chest; the weapon skidded off, barely chipping the enchanted bone; the creature didn't even seem to notice.

Fear and mana pumped through her heart in equal measure; Bethany switched from fire to frost at the speed of thought. She slammed the butt of her staff to the ground and the air around the leshy crystallized into a gleaming white pillar that stopped the creature as it brought its arm down to finish the scampering Warden. Yet, even as she prepared the next spell, cracks splintered the ice's surface.

A couple of shades, hunched figures of boiling, hungry darkness, detonated violently to her left, torn apart by Theresa's spell; Brosca caved an undead's chest in to her right just as Alistair drove the sharp edge of his kite shield through another's face, before disemboweling it. Corbus darted out and grabbed the wounded Torren, half-dragging half-supporting him away from the now free leshy. Bethany's paralysis glyph barely slowed it down; it made its arm swipe a sluggish thing, but the roots that exploded her way up the village's path were no less lethal. She met them head on with fire so hot it burned nearly white, consuming everything on their path and spilling into the village square. When the flames dissipated, however, the leshy was gone.

The ground shook under he feet; Bethany turned this way and that, searching frantically. Then she was flying and her ears were full of screams and her own heartbeat.

The impact left her a breathless heap on the ash-covered ground, staring up at the unforgiving sky. Crossbows twanged and bolts hissed; a scream turned into a gurgle. As survival instinct urged her to stand and fight or die, she saw the leshy, somehow smack behind them, throw Daveth's leaking, bolt-riddled form away. He thumped to the ground with a puff of ashes and a spray of blood, then lay unmoving, staring right past her.

Bile and horror climbed up Bethany's throat but refused to turn into a scream. Undead hands closed around her head with the strength of a millstone, then slackened as she put an ice spike through the possessed skull. She scampered to her feet to see Lord Cousland's crossbowmen turn around and beat it, leaving behind the impaled corpses of half-a-dozen companions.

 _'Why won't it die?'_ Her firebolt only cracked and blackened wood, giving Brosca an opening to strike high directly at its hip to nearly no effect. _'Why won't it die?!'_

"Theresa!"

"I'm _trying_!" She called back breathlessly. Alistair and Jory, grim-faced and shouting, dispatched the last of the undead in sight, leaving them free to support the harassed dwarf. A crushing prison of pure force magic formed around the leshy, to the only effect of restraining its movements. "Nothing works! I don't - Oh, fucking shit! The shaman that bound it has gotta still be around somewhere! Keep it occupied, I'll find the bastard!"

"No!" Brosca shouted over the din, "Alistair -"

The leshy broke free of the crushing prison. A vicious backhand sent Brosca; roots burst out of the ground in every direction, forcing both Alistair and Ser Jory into a hasty retreat or risk be skewered. More roots enveloped the leshy like a cocoon, and then it was gone.

"Look out!" Theresa warned, running up to Bethany. "It's moving through the ground!"

A tremor like a breath went through the earth right under her feet. When she turned around, the leshy, smoking and covered in the ashes of its own body, towered only a few, meager steps behind her, its saber-like fingers coiled to impale her.

Theresa's arcane shield and her own barrier withstood the first strike, but cracked and shattered on the second. Bethany dove to the ground, trying to encase it in ice again, only for the leshy to shrug off the spell before it even took hold of him.

Faced with imminent death, she did not expect the leshy to shudder and howl.

Theresa's next blast of pure kinetic force made it stumble.

"Now! It's vulnerable!"

Panic screamed into Bethany's ears and fire surged from the ground beneath its clawed feet, bathing the avatar in a column of blue-white flames. Panting in terror and euphoria, she coaxed her magic into making the flames swirl and turn, faster and faster; the whirlwind trapped the thing within, until it was just too bright and painful to look at.

When the flames abated, only blackened ground and a small pile of fine ashes remained.

Bethany dropped unceremoniously to the ground, gulping down lungfuls of air and coughing from the smoke and heat tickling her throat. The unnatural euphoria receded; with the destruction of the leshy, the gaps in the Veil shrunk, trapping the minor demons of rage and hunger on the other side once again.

The fall of loud, approaching boots shook her out of the daze; she looked up and accepted Alistair's hand with a grunt, then her head spun when the man lifted her to her feet too fast. All around them, the ruins of the village and its once-inhabitants lay still again, but the unnatural silence that almost stole their voices before had lifted.

Groans, curses, and assorted chatter rose from both within the village and at the edge, where Cousland's forces hung, curious and hesitant in the same breath. Bethany plodded up to where Ser Jory knelt by Daveth's side, steeling herself for what she already knew. The knight, his face covered in soot, grime, and ichor, gave her a meaningful, fearful look and shook his head.

Bethany swallowed, finding the knight's beleaguered visage and silent prejudice easier to bear. "Are you injured?"

"Nothing serious. You should see to Warden Torren and Brosca, I think?"

The last of her energies were expended mending Torren's shoulder and helping Brosca reabsorb a minor concussion. Despite feeling tired to her bones and numb, she found herself still surprised at the dwarf's resilience: she'd half-expected to be dealing with a cracked skull and maybe some internal bleeding, but he was back on his feet faster than her.

Lord Cousland approached them as the sorry procession filed out of the village, past the impaled crossbowmen, now lying in a messy heap. With the leshy's death, the roots had retreated into the ground.

The noble was visibly shaken, as was his retinue, but he held his own admirably, purporting strength for his men's sake.

"What manner of creature was that? Are there more?"

"Fuck no," Theresa breathed out. "As the late Daveth said it, that was a leshy. A powerful demon or spirit bound through some kind of ritual to a container and forced to serve as a sacred guard dog or some shit like that. Shares a bond with the shaman that created it, making it a bitch and a half to put down without killing the shaman first." She massaged her neck with a grimace. "Wish I had remembered that one sooner now."

"You're not the only one," Cousland agreed, casting a pained glance at his dead men. "I assume the whole area is off limits. We'll have to move around it, and now we've lost half our scouts." He regarded them with a burdened look. "How much time do you need to rest up?"

Bethany wanted to ask for a bed and a week of blissful oblivion. Brosca and Corbus exchanged a silent conversation, then the senior Warden said they'd be ready to go when Cousland's forced were ready, only to retire with Torren to speak of the Maker knew what. Bethany groaned aloud, a wordless echo to Theresa's grumbled, vivid curses.

"Who found the shaman, anyway?" she asked nobody in particular, too tired and filthy to care for formality even as her mana reserves replenished at a heady speed, drawing from the raw energy still saturating her every breath. She needed a bath to at least wipe the tainted ichor and dirt from her face, not to mention her hair, but had to make do with a spare shirt she then burned.

A passing soldier overheard her question and pointed towards Lord Cousland and his retinue. "It was that wilder over there, Warden," he said, bobbing his head and never quite looking her in the face, "the one speakin' with milord right now. Went in on his own and brained the maleficar; must be mad, or very brave."

She recognized her stalker in the man she was indicated. As she studied him, he took his leave from Lord Cousland; his head turned in her direction, but between the helmet and the cowl, she could only see his bearded jaw. With a nod, he vanished behind a wall of soldiers, then into the woods.

"That dipshit again?" Theresa said coming up from behind her, puffing her cheeks in annoyance. "First he follows you around like a lost puppy, now he steals my kill. Asshole."

"Steal your kill?"

"I'm the Mage Slayer here. It's a matter of professional pride." Theresa's hand found hers and gave it a squeeze. "You alright?"

"Not really." She contemplated elaborating, but she didn't really know where to even start, so she went with the first thing that crossed her mind. "You really wanted to see one of those things?"

"Yep," Theresa confirmed, popping her lips, "ever since once nearly wiped that fucking superiority complex from my teacher in the Seekers, and the rest of her with it. That one took down two Seekers and a whole bunch of templars before they got to the shaman, so I'd say we got off pretty well."

Her careless dismissal of over a dozen deaths and Daveth's, whom they'd known for weeks, stoked worry anew in Bethany's breast, but then it was time to move out.

Overhead, the caw of a crow echoed through the canopy.

* * *

 _AN: My sincere thanks to_ _ **DmCrebel25, Aegon Blacksteel, Vampirelord101, lupusadaquilonem,**_ _and_ _ **CMY187**_ _(who transcends the boundaries of reviews and ascend to word-by-word commentaries nearly as long as my own chapters) for their reviews, feedback, and support._

 _A bit of a heads up: as some of you may already have guessed, while Bethany and Cormac (for now) will be the two main, parallel POVs, the chapters do no actually happen at the exact same moment in time; for example, Bethany arrived at Ostagar around the same time Fergus left Highever, which means that this chapter takes place around two weeks after the events of Cormac's previous one; the next Cormac chapter, however, won't "wait" two weeks, but rather happen not too long after where we left off last time. In a way, Cormac's POV will have to "catch up", time-wise, to Bethany, but as she'll still be in the Wilds on her next chapter, there won't be continuity issues._

 _Regarding the mention of Ferelden troops being heavy on pikes and crossbows, my reasoning is that Fereldan's army and combat doctrine would have been rebuilt (by Loghain, mostly) with a heavy anti-Orlesian focus, and we all know how much Orlais loves their Chevaliers._

 _Next up is Cormac again *the crowd jubilates*. Thank you for reading, don't forget to leave a_ _ **review**_ _._


	8. 8) Bethany IV, Part II

**BETHANY**

The warmth from the spell that consumed the leshy had left Bethany's body by the time Warden Corbus and Warden Torren split off from the expedition.

The Wilds swallowed them in moments and did the same to every other scout Lord Cousland sent out, including Bethany's own Chasind stalker.

He passed by her and she almost grabbed him by the wrist, but then Theresa pulled at her cloak. When she turned back, the stalker was gone. She tried to put him out of her mind like she was ignoring the empty space the late Daveth left beside Ser Jory.

It was got easy, frighteningly so, as she marched on in the column. A grey dryness splotched with black plunged the marshlands into drabness. Bethany saw more and more corpses, scattered like breadcrumbs along the narrow hunting paths. Chasind warriors and tribesmen here, army scouts there.

Some were rotting away half-submerged in the swamp. A few hung from large branches, riddled with gaping wounds and broken javelins.

By then, Daveth and the stalker were barely more than two faces out of dozens.

Brosca had her stop burning every single corpse she saw: there were just too many, and she risked setting fire to the dry husks of trees half the time.

Moreover, after they left the Chasind village behind, the Veil had thickened around them again. Her reserves didn't refill with the same heady speed anymore.

The cold snuck up on her as the daylight grew fainter through the canopy and the shadows thickened. It didn't care for her warming spell nor for the cloak she wrapped around herself. It wasn't even the kind of cold that made her teeth chatter: it seeped into her bones and numbed her limbs.

It was an eerie sensation and Bethany's attuned senses recognized it as unnatural, but she could do little about it.

The Chasind village was maybe miles behind her, the darkspawn still nowhere to be seen, when the ambient magic began to shift again. A low charge permeated the air, like in the aftermath of a combination spell by Senior Enchanters, yet magnitudes greater.

It wasn't quite the same as the weakened Veil in the village. The energy didn't seep into her and replenish her mana pool. It actually repulsed her attempts to manipulate it; it just hung around her fingertips like an itch she couldn't scratch, carrying a foul trace she couldn't quite pinpoint.

Ahead, Alistair's back was a treaty on tension as he conversed quietly with Brosca. The soldiers advanced in a dead silence that was louder than any song. If she listened carefully, she could almost make out the rush of running water mixed with the squelch of marching boots.

Theresa muttered to herself and shielded her nose, face grim under the hood. Gone was her pokey drunkenness; now, she almost reminded Bethany of Damien the first time he came back from Dane's Retreat after one tankard too many.

"Are you doing better?" Bethany asked, squeezing her cousin's hand.

Theresa squeezed back, eyes on the ground. "I liked it better when it made me giggly and aroused, really. Brosca's been helping me a lot." She flicked Bethany in the nose when she coughed. "With the agoraphobia, you perverse bumpkin. Not that I'm losing much. Fucking clouds everywhere. Reminds me of the ceilings in the Tower."

"The rain can be nice." She doubted anything that would fall from those could be, however.

"I'll tell you when I can stand outside without a cloak." Theresa let go of Bethany's hand and sniffed the air. "Sorry, this aura's making me cranky. Someone must've drained their veins dry."

Bethany stiffened, glancing around to see if anyone was listening in. "Blood Magic?" she whispered back. How long had Theresa known? Why didn't she speak before?!

A nod. "By the bucket load, too. Quite a ways off, I think," Theresa said, gesturing vaguely. "I'm not one-hundred percent sure, mind you. It shouldn't carry this far. It feels... different. Off. Makes my fucking head beat like a tambourine." She huffed, pinching her nose. "I don't know."

Alistair, who'd been conversing quietly with Brosca until then, took off at a jog, making for Lord Cousland's banner towards the center of the column. Bethany feared he'd heard, but Brosca's gesture to gather around eased her somewhat as they fell in with the dwarf's pace. It was short-lived.

"They're close," the dwarf said, stone-faced. "Alistair's got the jiffies. Blight Magic, he says. What I know is air's reekin' of them 'spawn and the river crossin' is comin' up. We'll be sittin' nugs there. If they got two brains 'tween the lot of 'em, that's when they'll strike. But we've gotta cross, one way or the other."

"Blight Magic," Theresa muttered under her breath. "What's next, Blight-undead?" Bethany kicked her in the shin almost on reflex. Her head swiveled around, eyes searching but finding only the same trees, lianas, ferns, and bogs she'd been looking at all day.

"They're around us?" Ser Jory sputtered, going a lighter shade of white. "But - where? How many?!"

The soldiers marching behind the knight paled, eyes darting in every direction. Soon, a murmur began to arose from a dozen throats.

"What's the surprise, nuglets? Them scouts ain't returnin'. We're balls-deep in their turf." Brosca frowned, hacked, and spat. "Can't say much with all this Taint 'round, but they're there. Lass!" He jabbed a finger at Theresa, ignoring Jory's strangled whimper. "I want ya to keep those barriers n' pushes n' shit ready for arrow salvos n' spells. Ya're on defense detail until an emissary pops up, then ya skullfuck them n' back to defense. Rinse and repeat. If ya're gettin' tapped, whistle. Gotcha?"

"Loud n' clear, boss," Theresa parroted back, but her knuckles popped from how tight she was gripping her staff. The grin she flashed up at Bethany was a stiff thing.

"Sparkle-feet, the moment it starts, ya light them up. Don't waste time on healin', unless it's the lass or Alistair: a dead 'spawn's a 'spawn that can't gut someone else, and none's more dangerous than an emissary."

"But -"

"No buts, and don't gimme that look! By the time ya'll patch one up, ten more sods are gonna be goners. Killin' 'spawn faster 'an they kill us is the economically efficient thing."

Bethany bit her cheek and swallowed her retort, while Theresa nodded along.

Just as the path widened and the thick foliage overhead thinned enough to show the sky again, leaden as it was, Lord Cousland's sergeants started barking commands to the column.

Up ahead, the river churned, its waters dark and forbidding. The remains of a collapsed bridge hugged the steep banks, the rotten planks and soaked ropes almost taunting.

Bethany tried to tell herself the water was only reflecting the sky.

Orders were shouted; the soldiers changed formation in a flurry of flying mud and clanking metal. A block of Highever soldiers with pikes moved to the center of the clearing, and formed a defensive line some fifty paces from the crossing, their back to the river. Soldiers with staff weapons and spearmen flared out left and right, and then more. There was some coordination amidst the loud chaos, even she could see that, but there were just too many people and voices to keep track of.

Bethany made herself Brosca's shadow, trying her best not to stay underfoot. She found herself with Theresa and the other Wardens among a gaggle of light infantry and Ashen Warriors shielding the crossbowmen, their faces drawn as tight as the grip on their weapons.

"The outpost's less than half a mile uphill from the river," Alistair said as he pushed through the soldiers, a pained frown in place of the usual lopsided smile. "Lord Cousland is sending us across first. We're to establish a beachhead and cover the rest of the crossing."

"Aye." Brosca was frowning at the rushing waters. "Good head on his shoulders, the lordlin'. Here's hopin' he won't lose that too soon." Brosca grabbed a nearby sergeant, brought him down to his level and whispered something that made the older man pale and dash to Lord Cousland.

At least, she thought the man was older. She'd been around him for weeks, and she never thought to ask the ugly dwarf how old he actually was. The chance evaporated when Brosca lowered his runic full-helmet over his face.

More shouted orders from several throats challenged the fragor of the waters, making a good number of spearmen and pikemen turn towards the bank. None that Bethany could see moved to cross it, however.

It was then that she noticed Lord Cousland's second in command, one Ser Naois Gilmore, had shouldered his way to their position.

The Knight's visor was up, his eyes gleaming, framed by salt-and-pepper hair glued to his forehead. "What's the meaning of this, Warden?"

"Get your steel out and brace, ser. It's about to start." Brosca pointed his Warhammer at the river. "Sparkle-feet, zap it."

"What?" Bethany said, echoed by Theresa and Ser Jory.

"I said zap it. With your sparks. Damn 'spawn need no breathin'. Move it!"

Bethany gulped and looked at the clouds, at the lightning straining for release behind the leaden canopy. She inhaled and felt the tingle spread down her arms, bounce across her fingertips, then coil in her palms, already struggling to be let out.

"Soldiers of Ferelden! Prepare for battle!" Lord Cousland shouted.

"I've got your back, bumpkin," Theresa whispered.

And then there was lightning, a blinding flash that boiled the water and singeing her fingertips.

A few soldiers and Mabari shouted and yelped in surprise, but it was nothing to the crazed screams of the first Hurlock that tried to claw up onto the bank and grab the nearest ankle.

' _So they can feel pain,'_ Bethany thought. She let go of the spell and blew on her fingers, feeling weirdly empty inside.

Shouting spears and halberds shoved the Hurlock back into the water, then did the same to more, adding to twitching bodies floating to the surface. The current carried genlocks, hurlocks, and bloated, deformed bogfisher downriver by the dozens.

Bethany stared at them, mesmerized. That was her doing. Just a single spell. She felt the singes more than she did the dip in her mana reserves.

She felt laughter bubble up. Was it so easy, after all?

Cords twanged and guttural roars rose from the Wilds.

"Shields!"

"Lass!"

Arrows and javelins hissed, a thick, black rain that pelted against shields and plate and chainmail, but soldiers screamed and fell in front of her anyway, clutching at chests and throats and faces. Bethany's vision was filled by a shield, but beyond the edge she saw the next salvo bounce off mid-air from a shimmering dome, punctuated by Theresa's snarl.

Alistair's gauntlet was cold against her cheek, a soft pat that made her blink.

"Snap out of it, Bethany! They're here!"

And from the grey and black marshland, they came. Bounding and snarling, howling and charging, blistered figures in spiked armor melted out of the trees, erupted from the mud and appeared on top of branches.

The Ferelden line met them with a collective battle-cry and wall of pointed steel, shoulder to shoulder and heels dug in.

" **For Ferelden!"**

The crash was deafening and the world threatened to shatter. A moment later, it was still there and her with it. She shook off her funk by wrapping a barrier around herself and turning a two genlock on a tree and their javelins into wailing torches.

Beyond the defensive line, the hunter's trail the column had followed and the wilderness was packed with slobbering darkspawn. She dropped a fireball in their midst, then Brosca was there, hammer and armor stained black; his bark made her switch targets to the skirmishers and then he was gone to reinforce the right flank, the grim Ser Jory and a dozen Ash Warriors with their hounds on his tail.

The soldiers around her guarding the bank began to turn around towards the fight, moving in accordance to orders Bethany barely heard over the buzz of the battle and the beat of her pumping heart. Fire bloomed and took shape at her beckon, and darkspawn burned alone, in pairs, or by the dozen.

She felt like laughing. She was invincible. What Templar could measure up to her, now? What Templar would dare press the Tranquil brand to her forehead? Bethany cremated a Hurlock and the snarling bogfisher that it rode and felt a bloody smile open up her face at the horrified expression on Alistair's face.

She'd like to see his kind try now. She'd send their ashes in a box to the Grand Cleric in Denerim! To the Divine herself!

Ice shot down her veins and her knees buckled, but she threw herself forward when she felt sticky fingers being torn from her brain and soul. The landed awkwardly, then shot a barrage of fist-sized icicles into the reeling blanket-clad demon floating where she had been standing.

The Desperation demon's screech turned into laughter as it gobbled up her ice and turned into a cold mist around its body. The sounds sucked the air out of Bethany's lungs, and long, clawed fingers reached for her heart.

" _Sweet, sweet euphoria, blackened into despair. You're mine now, dreamer. MINE!"_

Then Alistair was there, chopping through the limb as he smashed his shield into the Demon's face. Frost started to cover the blade and the scales of his armor, while the Demon's claws tore apart his Warden tabard and dug into his shield.

For a moment, it looked like the Demon would wrench it away, and Alistair's arm with it. Then the Warden buried his sword down the Demon's throat and the creature collapsed into itself, falling apart.

Bethany tried to pick herself up, but the cold wasn't receding. And then she saw why.

Desperation demons were floating across the river, two dozens of them. They turned water to ice in their wake and fell upon panicking soldiers who dropped their weapons and clawed at their heads. Shards of ice battered the thinning line of levies and the backs of the formations facing the Darkspawn, while others turned the people around them into frostbitten, withered husks.

' _Where – How?'_

Her thoughts were sluggish, her body more so. On the other bank, a dozen hurlocks and genlocks paced in front of an assembling shieldwall. They wore elaborate headwears of feathers and bones and sported honking staves with blackened tips.

Just by looking at them, a cloying taint threatened to pour down her throat and out of her eyes. Entropy magic wrapped around them in twisted coils, heavy as mist and thick like blood.

Emissaries. _'They – They summoned the demons.'_

Breathing hard from the ice fist clucthing her heart, Bethany struggled on all fours, then on her knees. Theresa was nowhere to be seen, but Alistair had put himself between her and two Demons and was losing.

Her arm was made of lead, fighting her for every inch. The firebolts she produced barely made the closest demon's cloak catch fire before fizzling out.

"It can't end like this," she whispered hoarsely as a Desperation Demon encased Alistair's leg into ice and the other got around him, plunging towards her. "It can't. Mother. Damien. Please…"

"ANIMAE! EVERSIO!"

The Demon twisted in midair in a way that ought to snap every bone in its body, if it had any. Too-long arms contorted in different directions, then its spine folded backward, until its hooded head was brushing its heels.

Its mouth gaped in a silent howl, and then it exploded.

All along the bank and over the freezing river, every Demon met a similar fate in moments, or already had by the time she looked, leaving behind only frosty mist and curling pieces of their cloaks.

The ice fist around her heart melted, but a dread of a different kind took hold of it next, when she looked over her shoulder.

Theresa was floating like a Tevinter Magister of old. Black blood coiled and bubbled around her and her eyes were black as pitch. With one lazy gesture, she froze a hail of projectiles mid-air, and a wave of her hand tossed most of the darkspawn on the distant bank head over heels.

Red blood started to dribble from her eyes and mouth then, but her cousin didn't seem to notice.

"You wanted to feed her to Demons? _My Bethany?_ Oh no, you don't!"

The Emissaries' spells were already flying by then, fire and lightning and buzzing swarms and more curses than she could count.

Bethany only had time to throw up a barrier in front of Alistair and herself, but then Theresa shouted a spell and the Emissaries' magic writhed and died before it crossed the river fully.

"Fucking idiots!" Theresa snarled, drawing more darkspawn blood around her, but she was floating no more. Her fingers coiled in a gesture Bethany had become familiar with in her dreams.

"Theresa -"

"Animae Eversio!"

The words hadn't left her lips that Theresa's eyes rolled in her sockets. She dropped to the ground like a puppet, trashing and drooling like a rabid dog.

Bethany didn't watch if the Emissaries were dead or not; she didn't look at Alistair or at the screaming soldiers and knights she'd forgotten about for a while. She dragged herself through the blood-soaked mud to her cousin instead and cradled her pasty, bloody face as the battle raged around them.

Some time passed and much to her surprise, nothing caved her skull in. Theresa had stopped shaking, but she didn't wake up. Her chest barely rose and fell. It was all Bethany could do to stop her eyes from bleeding, but in her Demon-induced euphoria, she'd drained herself.

At some point, Alistair tried to drag her away from Theresa, yelling words she didn't quite understand and pointing at a dam of rock and stone wide five men across that cut across the river.

She was sure that hadn't been there, last time she checked.

"Ash Warriors, manlings, with me!" Brosca shouted somewhere to her left. He was probably waving his warhammer. "Push them back from the bank! Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!"

"- have to push for the outpost!" Alistair was waving and pointing an awful lot. "They've cut our retreat! Lord Cousland is wounded! Stand up, Bethany!"

She shook her head. "Theresa can't move."

He grabbed her by the shoulders. "Then leave her! She's a Blood Mage!"

She slapped him. It was good that he'd lost his helmet, at some point, or she'd have broken her hand. "She's the only family I have. Family looks after each other. And she's like this because she saved you. All of you."

The tiny voice screaming _'My Bethany!'_ at the back of her head was indeed tiny, and thus easy to ignore.

His face hardened. "Don't make me Smite you and carry you, Recruit."

"That's enough. The line won't hold for long. You take Bethany and I'll take this little overachiever here."

The Chasind stalker stood behind her, bloody hand-ax out and arms bare to reveal metal vambraces woven with intricate designs glowing a lyrium blue. The glow alone was enough to snap some of Bethany's thoughts into focus, but her mind nearly blanked out again when she saw his face.

Like Alistair, he was helmetless. Unlike Alistair, his eyes weren't shining with anger and terror. Thick scar tissue covered where his right eyes should be, traveling across his nose and webbing around an empty left socket.

Her training told her it was an old wound - years-old, -but it had nothing to say to explain the rest of the Chasind's face.

' _It can't be. But – No, I'm hallucinating. I'm exhausted and I'm hallucinating. He's dead.'_

The stalker's thin smile was hauntingly familiar, even if his face didn't turn down to her.

"No, you're not hallucinating. 'My magic will serve what's best in me –'"

"'- Not what's basest.'" She barely managed to finish her father's favorite quote, before her throat dried up and her vocal cords tried to tie themselves into knots. "Damien?"

Her blind, revived brother scooped Theresa up over his shoulder and helped her up. He grimaced and held his side under the furs her wore. When his hand came away, it was stained crimson.

"It's good to hear you say it again, Beth. Now come, all of you. We aren't through the worst of it yet."

* * *

 _AN: No Cormac, I know. I lied, but you still got a chapter after over a year. That should be reason enough to be happy, yes? And I came through with another old promise pertaining a certain Avatar character on steroids. Are we good? Good._

 _My thanks to_ _ **coduss, lupusadaquilonem, CaedmonCousland, DmCrebel25, VampireLord101, Rinnala Lethan, higherbrainpattern, Aegon Blacksteel, Evelyn,**_ _the immense_ _ **CMY187**_ _with his essay-like reviews, and_ _ **AnthonyR89**_ _for their reviews and precious, precious feedback. If anyone's still around, take a moment to say hello with a_ _ **review**_ _. Thank you very much._


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